


The Long Journey Home

by waytooserious



Series: Arya Returns [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-29
Updated: 2013-06-06
Packaged: 2017-12-13 08:17:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/822070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waytooserious/pseuds/waytooserious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arya never intended to return to Westeros. And if she did, it was going to be as a woman grown, tall and fierce, and skilled in the art of killing, ready to answer a lost little girl’s prayer. </p><p>But once again, she no longer seems to be in charge of where her feet take her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. How Quickly the Mask Fades

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I don’t want to start my fic by explaining what I was trying to achieve, because that should be obvious. I don’t want to apologize for any of it, either, because it all seemed necessary. All that I will say is that I started to write a story that lifted up Arya and Gendry, and somewhere along the way it became mostly a hymn to Arya Stark, the fictional character dearest to my heart. I hope you enjoy it. Some places are angsty, but stick with it; I don’t know how to write proper angst, and happy endings are the only kind I allow :)
> 
> At the end of the day … hey, this was something I just had to do. I haven’t written anything in a short lifetime, but I couldn’t help myself.
> 
> (Sadly, no longer show-canon compliant!)

The land that was slowly filling the horizon filled her with dread.

It wasn’t that she had never planned on returning, but this was far too soon. When she returned to the seven kingdoms, it was going to be as a woman grown, tall and fierce, and skilled in the art of killing, ready to answer a lost little girl’s prayer. As it happened, she was still a girl of thirteen; her name day had come and gone a while back. She was older, but no bigger, and with much still to learn. And she had been sent here, pushed around like a piece of a game. It was not her choice. All she could do was complete her task and return to her training.

“A woman has visited us,” Izembaro, her master, had said. “She has offered up a prayer to the god of death. It is up to you to answer it.”

She had nodded solemnly, her eyes and face giving nothing away, but Arya Stark had long since realised she had no desire to answer the prayers of others. There was another prayer she wished to answer, and it belonged to a little northern girl with nothing left to lose. As regarded the woman’s prayer, she wished to tell the god of death the same thing she had been taught to say to him: “Not today.” 

It felt like a lifetime ago, but it was not all that long. She was no longer that little girl, but neither was she the one who would deliver vengeance to those in her prayer. She had learned so much since then, and some of the lessons had been hard. Some lessons had been learned even before she had entered the House of Black and White. She knew things the little girl never had. She knew, now, that sometimes it was best to hold your tongue, to let others have their petty insults, and to wait, and listen, and watch. She knew, now, that sometimes careful words could win you things that threats and even cuts could not; courtesy could be weapon as well as armor. That lesson had been long in the learning of it, and done the hard way, but she had learned it none the less. After all, it was nothing new.

She had things still to learn. That much was clear from Izembaro’s instructions. After he told her where to find the man, and guided her to the right face to wear, he gave her one rule. “No swords,” he said firmly.

“What? Why not?” she demanded, forgetting herself for a moment.

“You are already skilled in swordplay – the water dance, if you will.”

She kept her face still, her eyes empty. That had been a hard thing to learn. 

“You will not always have a sword, or the opportunity to use one. Find another way to kill this man.”

She agreed, and began to plan, but she took Needle from its hiding place nonetheless.

She had first made the crossing to Braavos as Salty. It had been the first time anyone had recognised her as female since leaving King’s Landing. Only once during her training with Izembaro had she ever tried to present herself as a boy, and it had not been successful. She was still small, still slender, still lacking any feminine grace, but she was now clearly female. Her hair was longer, and the sharp angles of her face and body had softened, though she put that down to regular meals at the House of Black and White. The Many-Faced god had no use for weak and starving servants.

“How long before we reach Saltpans?” she asked one of the crew. She could see the land growing nearer and nearer, and with it her detachment was fading, and Arya Stark was becoming stronger and stronger, but with the strength came dread, and fear. The last time she had set foot here, she was recently orphaned. Her mother and father had been murdered, her brothers dead, her sister taken by the enemy. To make things worse, her pack had abandoned her; even the Hound had left her for the dark embrace of death.

The young man gave her an appraising look; he had never been quite sure what to make of her. Something in the face she’d taken was older – she was no little girl – but it was unusual enough for a woman to travel alone. Changing her face could not alter her height, but it gave her smooth olive skin and shiny chestnut curls that whipped around in the sea breeze. “By nightfall, I imagine,” he replied.

“I need to be certain,” she snapped.

He sighed and turned to the captain. “Currin? Will we be there by nightfall? Our passenger needs to know.”

The captain was ancient, and knew his manners. “Of course, m’lady.”

Her breath caught in her throat at his term of address, and a lump formed in her throat, but she let none of it show on her face.

~~~~~~~~~~ 

She took a room at an inn on the road away from the town. She had coin enough to pay for that, and a meal besides. She smells in the inn overwhelmed her. Braavos has smelled … different, somehow, but the smoke and food and spilled ale here were the smells of her childhood. Like the kitchens of Winterfell, where the servants laughed and called her Arya Underfoot, and the taverns of the winter town where she wasn’t supposed to go. It reminded her of times after that, as well. Some of the rooms in Harrenhal had smelled like that, and the places she had stopped as she made her escape.

She allowed herself to reminisce, but she was not sufficiently distracted to fail to notice the two men watching her. _Two_ , she thought calmly. _I can handle two_. Her instincts were sharper now than they had ever been; one look at these men told her they had an ill purpose. It was impossible that they served her enemies; the curly-haired young woman had no enemies. But she was a woman, young and pretty and alone, with enough money to pay for food and shelter. It was almost certain that they meant to rob her, or rape her, or both. She rose from her seat and made her way to her room, pretending not to notice that one of the men was following her. She stopped comfortably short of her own door, in a dark alcove, and waited, her hand on Needle’s hilt.

When the man passed her, she moved swiftly and silently, driving her blade between his ribs. He didn’t have time to cry out. “Valar morghulis,” she whispered; this kill belonged to an acolyte of the Faceless Men, not to Arya Stark, who had her own prayer. She backed away just has his companion turned the corner; whirling around, she faced him in the stance of a water dancer. She slashed the blade through the air rapidly, making him aware of her skill. His eyes narrowed, and he pulled an oil lamp from the wall, hurling it at her. She dodged nimbly, and it broke on the floor behind her. Charging forwards, the next thing she heard was the ring of steel as her blade met his. The blood pumped through her body, making her stronger and faster than ever, and making the blade a part of her arm. It was difficult to follow the steps of the water dance in the close confines of the corridor, but it suited her better than him. She deflected his blows easily, and waited for the chance to strike. She was younger and lighter; he would tire faster … but, wait. _Something’s wrong_ , her mind whispered, over the sing of the steel. The flames from the lamp had ignited the grimy floor, and spread to the body of the fallen brigand. Smoke was filling the corridor. Arya pressed forwards more urgently, slashing at the man’s body with Needle, even though the blade wasn’t really meant for that. It unnerved him enough, though, to unbalance him, giving Arya the opportunity to follow her first lesson. Expressionless, she stuck him with the pointy end. The shock registered on his face as he fell.

Almost overcome with smoke, Arya prepared to flee, and realised to her horror that the hem of her tunic had caught fire. Instinctively she threw herself onto the floor, rolling to suffocate the flames. Before long, the entire inn would be aflame. With one backwards glance, she launched herself through the window into the fresh night air. The winter’s night was clear and crisp and still, and she paused by a horse trough to douse her tunic with water and to splash her face. As she leaned forward, she recoiled in shock – the face that allowed her free travel, and protected her own precious identity was melted, and half gone. She peeled it away, and saw her own familiar face: changed from the last time she was here, but not so much. If she fought from now on, she would do it with the long face, brown hair and grey eyes her father had given her. The kills would no longer belong to the Faceless Men, for this girl had a face, and a name, too – the kills would belong to Arya, of House Stark.

~~~~~~~~~~ 

She left Saltpans without so much as a backward glance. She made her bed for the night in the shelter of a fallen oak tree. Half-rotted acorn shells littered the ground, and as she brushed them aside her face twisted into something resembling a smile, without ever knowing why. She would sleep well enough here; it would not be the first time she had slept on the ground. Before she slept, though, she pulled Needle from her belt to clean. When she ran her fingers gently along the blade, she got a shock far worse than the smouldering tunic or melted face. The blade was notched, half a hand below the tip. It would need to be fixed if she were to carry out her kill.

_But will you, though?_ asked a voice in her head.

_Yes. I have no choice_ , she told the voice firmly.

_You could just leave_ , the voice persisted. Was it Jon Snow?

_I can’t. I still have things to learn. I still have work to do. And I’m not ready yet …_

_Yes, you are._ It wasn’t Jon. It was … Arya. Arya Stark, the Hand’s daughter. But that Arya was a stupid child … wasn’t she?

Regardless, her sword needed mending; doubtless that was why she imagined she heard Jon’s voice. She knew, though, that her mere possession of such a blade would draw unwanted attention and questions at every forge or armory from here to the western shore. Besides, to get it fixed, she would need to hand it over to another, leaving her defenceless. Well, not completely defenceless. Izembaro had ordered her to refine her skills without a sword; they may not have been her preferred methods, but she knew them well enough. But she wasn’t sure she could bring herself to deliver Needle into the hands of a stranger. As she thought, she cleaned the damaged blade as best she could, and lay down to sleep. As she slept, she dreamed.

_She was a wolf, a pack leader, and her pack grew ever larger. Her wolves were hungry, and tired of scavenging. They approached a village. There could be prey here, hogs or cattle, or horses at the very least … yes, she could smell them. There were men, too. There were some men it could be all right to eat … low, evil men, without honor or loyalty. She sniffed the air, trying to decide what sort of men lived here. Abruptly, she lifted her head, but didn’t let out the summoning howl; instead, it was a series of barks and growls. A warning._

_This was no place to feed._

When Arya woke, the wolf dream was still with her. The village … a place where men with honor still lived. As the wolf mind faded, she realised she knew the village. She knew the inn, and the forge. And, all at once, she knew where she needed to go next.


	2. You Can't Just Walk Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had changed, but not as much as her.

As she watched from the tree line, she wished for her Braavosi face. She thought she recognized some of the children, but they were older now. She wasn't looking for them, though; she chewed her lip as she watched, almost without blinking, for the boy who had once been part of her pack. Her breath caught in her throat when she saw him, feeling a little like she had the time the Hound threw an axe at her head.That old betrayal - that awful, horrible feeling of being _abandoned_ that had once been so constant in her life - now felt fresh. It had hurt even more than she had known at the time. He had been nothing to her, not really, but she never would have left him.

He had changed, but not so much as her. It was more than the shade of his hair and the sheer size of him that she remembered. It had crossed her mind that she would have to wait here for him for many days, but in her heart she'd known he would never stray far from his forge. The gods, old or new, of one face or many, had given him the lot of a smith, and he accepted it without question. He was unlike her in that way.

Quiet as a shadow, she crept into the forge on silent feet, not sure of the welcome she could accept. Her blade was in her hand out of pure habit. Before she could get too close, though, he seized a blade resting on the anvil and swung it around. His rough, heavy steel met her own with a ring. Both froze, and the steel song filled the empty air.

His face showed shock; hers, merely surprise. 'You're better now,' she commented, her eyes tracing to the point where the two blades met. As soon as he recovered himself, he let the blade fall to the floor, though he still blinked at her in disbelief. His mouth opened and closed before he could form the words. 'You're dead. The Hound killed you. He took you to the Twins, into all that slaughter ....' He trailed off, a fearful look appearing in his eyes. 'You do ... you do know what happened there, don't you?'

Finally letting her own blade fall, she turned away. 'Yes. I never made it to the Twins. The Hound's dead, but I ... I made it away.' It had never occurred to her, what anyone might think after she disappeared.

A long silence followed. 'Then where in seven hells have you _been?_

The sheer _feeling_ in his voice caught her by surprise, but she could hardly tell him the truth. And something was happening to her, something unexpected ... it was the joy of being recognized, of being _known_. She'd been a stranger - several strangers, in fact - for so long, and it had always felt like relief, and safety. Her face, her memories, had been something to run from, but now here was someone who knew them, even shared some of them. And back then, she had _cared_. Caring was something she'd almost forgotten about. Moving without her own permission, she crossed the small distance between them and threw herself against him, winning the battle with her tears, but only just.

~~~~~~~~~~

Her relief was short-lived. He took her by the arms, pulled her away from him, gripping too tightly to be comfortable. 'Answer me! Where have you been?'

She paused. 'Away,' she choked out. 'Just away.'

'I thought you were dead!'

Anger flared. 'I might as well have been! No-one cared! All they wanted was their highborn captive, their stupid ransom!' 

'I cared!' He shook her, not hard, but she still wrenched free. 

'No, you didn't! You left me! You were the only one I had left, and you left me!'

For a moment he looked like he was about to shout again, but he changed his mind and pulled her back towards him. But this time it was tense and awkward, and brought no comfort. It was good to see him, but she still hadn't forgiven him for leaving. He was angry, too, and she couldn't understand why. It made her even more mad, but she decided that this was one of those times when it was better to do nothing.

~~~~~~~~~~

They went inside, and Arya half expected to find all eyes on them. But while all the men seemed to know Gendry, she didn't recognize a single face. It seemed that the ranks of the Brotherhood without Banners had grown, and she said as much.

'Not grown,' he said, putting two cups of ale on the table. 'Changed. Lots of 'em died. Anguy, Harwin, Lem ... Tom's still around. Don't think nothing could kill him.'

Arya listened in silence, unsettled by his words. She hadn't like Lem much, and Harwin had betrayed her; he'd been her father's man first, after all. Anguy had been nice enough, but that wasn't what bothered her. People died all the time, especially here. Anyone could die. 

Gendry was lucky to still be alive.

He seemed to have read her thoughts. 'They all decided I'd be more use here at the forge than anything else, otherwise I'd be dead, too. Better mending swords than using them, but I've been getting better. Last month the inn was attacked and I didn't have any sword to hand, but I had a hammer from the forge. Think I was better with the hammer.'

She nodded; this was nudging something in her memory, but so many memories were rushing back. Already it was beginning to feel that the House of Black and White had been nothing but a dream.

'What about you?' he prompted, setting down his ale. 'I've told you my story, now tell me yours. Where did you go?'

'Saltpans,' she shrugged. It wasn't a lie. 'And I spent some time at sea.' Another half-truth. He looked at her, waiting for more, then gave up and nodded. 'I never ...' he began, then trailed off.

'Never what?'

'Nothing,' he said, a stubborn look appearing on his face as he picked up his cup again. Arya left a long silence before speaking - it didn't come naturally to her, but she'd found you could learn things that way - but eventually she noticed that people were starting to look their way, muttering to each other. It made her very uncomfortable.

'Come on,' she said, standing up abruptly.

'Come on where?'

'Come and show me what you've learned with the sword, or the hammer, or whatever.' She walked away, not bothering to look back to see if he was following.

~~~~~~~~~~

In the yard beyond the forge, she took Needle from her belt. Even damaged, there was no blade she would rather fight with. And this was only sparring; she couldn't do any further damage. In the doorway, Gendry stopped and ran his hands almost lovingly over the heavy metal hammer he used for beating out breastplates, before picking up an average-looking sword.

Arya was slightly puzzled. If anything, he had grown even larger since the last time she'd seen him. He could handle a larger blade, and she told him so.

'Pick a bigger sword, or that hammer. Are you worried about hurting me?'

'No,' he retorted, too quickly, and she knew she had the right of it. 

She tapped his leg with the side of her blade. 'Pick up the hammer, stupid.' Unbidden, a smile rose to her face, remembering.

Sighing, as if he remembered how pointless it was to argue with her, he picked up the hammer. Noting the seriousness in her eyes, he swung it around a few times; she answered impressively with Needle.

And then they were off. Arya led the attack, simply at first, steady graceful movements she'd learned at the age of nine from Syrio Forel. Gendry blocked with the hammer, and the shock of steel against iron travelled through Needle's hilt and into Arya's shoulder, and she knew he wielded the hammer well. Remembering how important it was to know things, she dropped back, waiting to see what kind of attack he would produce.

The hammer swung towards her in a huge arc, though she could tell he was holding back, swinging it more slowly than he could. On the ball of her foot, she slipped to the side, and the head of the hammer crashed into the floor, shaking the ground all around her. Once or twice she tried to block the blows, but the hammer brushed her blade aside easily. If this had been a real fight, she would have continued dancing aside, avoiding the heavy blows, and letting him tire himself, but this was only friendly sparring. Besides, he showed no sign of tiring. He had always been strong, she recalled. He was strong, she was quick. They had made a good team.

Renewing her attack, she pressed forwards, taking advantage of the speed her size afforded her. As she struck, she felt herself growing angry once again. He wasn't really trying, he was letting her win, treating her like some feeble girl, some gentle _lady_. 'Come _on_!' she almost growled. 'You're not _trying!_ '

He said nothing, just turned aside another strike.

'If you're so worried about hurting me, you shouldn't have _left_ me! That hurt more than bruises!' It felt good to shout; she'd practiced calmness for so long, separating herself from feelings, from everything, that it felt good to be angry. It even felt good to hurt. Pressing forwards once again, her strikes were no longer simple of straightforward. It was no longer sparring. She threw in a trick here and there, looking left when she meant to go right, backing up and then rushing forward. Needle's point made contact with his upper arm, and blood began to flow.

He let the hammer fall to the floor, looking at the wound. Clearly, he hadn't thought she would hurt him. _Good_ , she thought. Arya was back now, and it was time people knew what she could do. Ignoring the blood, she pressed the attack further, forcing him to pick up the hammer. But still he wouldn't attack her, not really. That was all she wanted, for him to forget all his stupid manners. Only a true attack meant your opponent respected you as a fighter.

Finally it came, a true swing with the hammer. Dodging it at the last minute, she found it only made her angrier. Needle swung so quickly now that she couldn't trace its journey through the air. Instinct took over; her mind was no longer a part of this fight. She wasn't sparring with an old friend ... she was fighting for her life.

All of a sudden, she stopped, though she didn't know why. As her pulse slowed, and her mind regained control of her body, she realized Gendry was no longer fighting. He was bent double, kneeling on the ground, clutching his middle. She saw blood between his fingers, and she stopped breathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figured out, as I was posting this, why it ended up being as much an Arya fic as an Arya/Gendry one, and it was because I was so determined to keep in her POV. It was so tempting to switch to his view in this chapter. Hopefully it still works.


	3. A Strange Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I haven’t been a child in a long time.”

Arya stood with her back against the wall outside the inn, horribly aware of her ragged breathing. She’d shouted, and others had rushed out of the inn to help Gendry. No-one had so much as glanced at Arya, so small and so female, standing over him. They thought he’d been attacked from the woods, and had simply dragged him away to a bed, one in a room that had a fireplace. She knew that if this had happened in the past, she would’ve run for those same woods herself, but that was the action of a child. 

Someone came out to talk to her. Ser Something; obviously a member of the brotherhood. He asked her what she had seen, and she wanted to confess. _We were just sparring,_ she thought. _I didn’t want to hurt him, not really_. But she didn’t say it. The knight seemed to think she was in shock; no doubt he was well accustomed to dealing with terrified smallfolk.

The winter moon was high in the sky before the knight came back, to tell her the wound was not as bad as they had feared, and that Ser Gendry should wake soon. She’d known, of course, that he was a knight himself, a knight of the hollow hill. She’d been there when Beric Dondarrion knighted him. It still sounded strange. Stupid Gendry, the Bull, who had travelled with her from King’s Landing as a Night’s Watch recruit. She hadn’t killed him after all. She took her first real breath since she saw that blood.

When he woke, he told the other knights of armored men from the woods, with no sigils on their armor. Was he protecting her, or did he simply not want to admit being wounded by a girl?

After the older women had seen him safely off to sleep, and gone off to their own beds, Arya sat with him until dawn. She remembered sitting by her father’s bed as she lay wounded, during the autumn before this awful winter. It was the role of the womenfolk, she knew, to sit at home and wait for news, and to stand vigil by the beds of the wounded. She’d hoped to avoid this fate by learning to fight herself, yet here she was, all the same.

When he woke, he was in better spirits than she could have imagined. “Still not much of a lady, are you?” he chuckled faintly. Arya didn’t have time to respond; as soon as his eyes were open, she was bustled from the room, to give the women space to check on him and change his bandages. She waited outside, glad to be out of the sweltering room, but still anxious, and wondering why she felt that way.

She’d lost so much. Her mother, father, brothers. She’d lost her sister, too, unless by some chance Sansa still lived. She’d lost Syrio, Jory, everyone. She used to feel safe, and that had been the hardest thing to lose. When all that was gone, she’d found a pack, friends to run alongside her, people to protect … and she’d lost them, too. When she’d had nothing left to lose, she’d left these shores, with a part of her missing. So why did she care that this boy was wounded? Wounded was nothing. She killed people all the time. She’d _come_ here to kill people.

But not him. After all this, it felt wrong to hurt someone she knew to be good.

A woman came out of the room. “Oh, are you still here? When might you be leaving?”

She started to chew her lip, then stopped herself. “Not yet,” she vowed.

~~~~~~~~~~

By sunset, Gendry was a lot stronger, sitting up in bed and joking with Arya about the mystery outlaws who’d attacked him.

“Huge, they were,” he told her with a straight face. “At least six of them. I killed five, but the last one caught me on his way down.”

“Shut up,” she muttered, but she knew she owed him twice, once for keeping their secret and once for forgiving her. No, it was more, it was three times. She was thankful to him for not dying, for not making her his killer.

“No, wait, maybe there seven. And that last one … he must have been a giant, down from the Wall.”

She couldn’t help it; she started to laugh. Gods, how long had it been?

At first it felt good to talk and laugh again, but the days were long, and her sword still broken, and they lapsed into silence. When they had travelled together, they could ride side by side in companionable silence; now it was awkward and uncomfortable, and she couldn’t begin to say why. 

“So where were you really?” he asked one afternoon, and for lack of any decent story, she was forced to tell him to truth.

“Training to become a Faceless Man,” she said flatly, feeling neither proud nor ashamed.

He let out a laugh that died instantly, uncertain as to whether to believe her. He took in her serious, solemn face, and his eyes widened.

“An assassin?”

She nodded, not meeting his gaze.

“So who are you here to kill?”

“No-one,” she snapped. “I came here because my sword got damaged.”

He sat up straighter in bed. “Oh, yes. I noticed that when we were sparring. May I see it?”

She handed it over, remembering the first time she’d let him hold it. She hadn’t trusted him, and he’d had to give her the bull’s head helm to hold first. Now, she knew she had nothing to fear, and the only hesitation she felt was on his behalf: would she want to hold the blade that could have killed her?

“Yeah, I can fix that,” he said slowly. “It’s not bad at all. Castle-forged steel doesn’t damage easily.”

She took the blade back. “Not today, though. You need to get better first.”

He blinked at her. “You almost sound like you care.”

One part of her wanted to shout, _of course I care! I’ve been sitting here for days! I told you things I never wanted to tell anyone!_ The other part of her wanted to yell _I don’t care!_

In the end, she simply stormed from the room.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The next day, she wished she hadn’t. During the night he’d taken a fever, and his room was full of muttering women. She’d learned a little of injuries in Braavos – mostly how to look after herself – and she could see they didn’t know what they were doing, so with cold fury in her voice she sent them from the room.

She changed the bandages herself, not fastening them as tightly as the women had; blood needed to flow in order to heal. She tasted the soup, and when she was satisfied it contained nothing harmful, she roused him from sleep and fed it to him spoonful by spoonful. When that one was finished, she went to the kitchens and made another. When the bowl was half empty, he coughed and tried to speak.

“What happened?”

She set the bowl down. “An infection, I think. Not a bad one. You’ll be all right.”

“I believe you,” he spluttered, and she knew that he wouldn’t have believed that from anyone else. He slept afterwards, and while he slept she boiled bandages and made more soup herself. The women seemed frightened of her, but she didn’t care. She knew more than they did, and it wasn’t all thanks to the Faceless Men. This soup recipe went all the way back to Old Nan.

When he woke his color was a little better, but his speech worried her. He rambled nonsensically about the Boltons, and though she couldn’t make head or tail of it, she suspected he was remembering Harrenhal. She often dreamed of it herself.

~~~~~~~~~~

The next time he woke, she was lost in her own memories.

“Arya?”

She reached for him instinctively. It was good that he knew her name, but she still felt anxious when she heard it spoken aloud.

“I’m here.”

“Good. I wanted to see you again before I die.”

Anger rose up inside of her. “You’re not going to die!”

The corners of his mouth lifted in a smile, though it looked like hard work. “As m’lady commands.”

If he hadn’t been so sick, she would’ve hit him.

~~~~~~~~~~

The fever grew worse overnight.

“Tom? Is that you?”

He thought she was Tom o’Sevenstrings? _Seven hells_ , she thought.

“Tom, Arya’s here. Lady Arya, I mean.”

She kept silent, though it wasn’t entirely deliberate; she had nothing to say.

“I know, Tom, I know. Highborn lady. Lord’s daughter. Stay away.”

_Stay away? Why? She needed her friends, back then. Her pack._

“I’m going to be a knight, though. Not just a bastard. Won’t matter then.”

_He’s remembering_ , she realised. It wasn’t just the fever; he was remembering a time before he was Ser Gendry of the Hollow Hill. He said nothing more, though, drifting off back to sleep.

The first thing he wanted when he woke was water, and then he even asked for food, and she knew he was stronger.

“Did the Brotherhood tell you to keep away from me? Why? They didn’t! Harwin threatened to tie me over his horse!”

He turned away, blushing like he had that night at the Peach. But whether things had changed or he was still light-headed from the fever, he answered her.

“Lem and Tom and the others thought we were too close.”

“What? We’d come all the way from King’s Landing together, through the Queen’s men and Harrenhal and the Mummers .,.” Her voice trailed off, and she started to realise what he meant. Strange, she’d never thought anything of it back then.

“It was Acorn Hall,” he explained. “You looked a proper little lady, and you spent every moment you could get with me.”

She considered that. Was it true? She’d felt ridiculous at Acorn Hall, dressed up like a doll when all the others got to keep their traveling clothes, as though everything she’d see, everything she’d been through, hadn’t made any difference at all.

“They sent you out, and I didn’t want you out there alone, so I followed you, and you ended up attacking me.” He coughed. “Some things never change.” He coughed again, and she handed him some water. It was melted snow; winter was tightening its grip.

“You smelled so good that night. Looked good, too. But so fierce … but still so pure. That old man in the Peach … wanted to kill him.”

She remembered. The old man had bothered her, and Gendry said he was her brother. She’s argued, and he’d taken offence. Suddenly, the memory of that night was crystal-clear. As though it had happened yesterday.

“I didn’t care you were bastard-born,” she said quietly. “Jon was my favourite brother.”

“Still wanted to be a knight, though. Might be it was nothing to do with birth. You always made me feel I wasn’t good enough. You were half my size, but twice as brave. Maybe if I was a knight …”

She handed him the water again, mostly to shut him up. Suddenly, she wished for Sansa. Sansa would know what this all meant. He’d liked her in the acorn dress, and wanted to be a knight so he was good enough for her? And he was worried about his rank of birth, like some suitor?

_No_ , she told herself. _It’s just the fever_.

~~~~~~~~~~

He wasn’t healing as quickly as she would’ve liked, and it frightened her. Fever and weakness seemed more dangerous in winter’s icy grip. One morning when he was speaking sensibly and she finally thought he was recovering, he seemed to draw himself up, and look her in the eye.

“Everything I said about Acorn Hall, I shouldn’t have said.”

“Why not?” she asked, smoothing the bedcovers in an uncharacteristic gesture.

“Lady or no, you were still more than half a child.”

She stood up, looking down at him as she had when he told her he was leaving her for the Brotherhood. But this time a kinder urge seized her. She bent and kissed him on the forehead, then looked him in the eye.

“I haven’t been a child in a long time.”

~~~~~~~~~~

After that, the fever seemed to break, and Gendry grew stronger every day. The people at the inn grew to trust Arya, and told her snippets of news about the kingdoms that she’d missed whilst in Braavos. 

Joffrey was dead, Cersei was ruined. The biggest shock, however, was that Sansa had indeed been married to the Imp - _the Imp!_ – and had fled with him, suspected of murder and treason. Arya knew it wasn’t true. Sansa couldn’t even kill spiders. Even if she’d finally seen Joffrey for the monster he was, she couldn’t have killed him.

Travelers arrived from the north, bringing news from the Wall. That was another shock: Jon was Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch – news that made her swell with pride – but wasn’t expected to live after being attacked by his men. Cold rage burned inside Arya. Jon was one of the best people she knew. All of his life he’d been hated, and for what? He was not to blame.

She shared this with Gendry one night. He had been well enough to walk into the forge, with Arya’s help, and begin inspecting the damage to Needle.

“Life’s hard for bastards,” he commented. “But what can you do?”

“Go to him,” she replied immediately. It had been her plan, long ago. She’d thought Jon could help her; perhaps now his little sister could help him. “Soon, I mean. When you’re strong again.”

“You mean for me to come?”

At once, her guard was up. “Only if you want to,” she said coldly.

He held up Needle, twisting it to reflect the light. “I’ll come. A knight of the brotherhood couldn’t let a lady make that journey alone, after all.”

Once, she might have yelled at him for that, even struck him, but now she knew exactly what he meant. _Save your strength for the battles worth fighting_.

“What about after?”

“After what?”

“After you see your brother. Are you going back to the Faceless Men?” His voice was steady, almost covering the fact that he was clearly hoping very much for one answer, and not another. Before, that might’ve confused her. Now, things had changed. Somehow, _somehow_ , he had seen something more than a scruffy little girl with matted hair and callused feet. He wanted her to stay, wanted to be special to her the way she was to him. It was an uncomfortable thought. Things like this didn’t happen to her, they happened to _Sansa_. She realised with a jolt that the last time they’d travelled together, she’d been almost eleven … the same age Sansa had been when their father took them to King’s Landing to be betrothed to Joffrey, and the Knight of Flowers had given her a red rose. Arya had never wanted to live in that world, never thought she even _could_. And where Sansa had golden chains and red roses from knights and princes, Arya had a mistaken confession brought on by fever, from a blacksmith. But it wasn’t unpleasant … she preferred it this way, just as she had once preferred fighting and riding to songs and sewing. And all of a sudden, it was very clear that she _wasn’t_ going back to the Faceless Men. 

“Come here,” she said, and he followed her, carrying Needle. She walked all the way down to the banks of the river, and sat down in the wet grass. He sat down beside her, looking uncertain. From a pocket in her boot, Arya pulled some feather darts and a vial of liquid that was firmly stoppered. From her sleeve, she pulled a dagger so thin it could be hidden anywhere. Finally, she untied her belt, made of a length of rope with a handle at each end. One by one, she cast each item into the river, remembering a mirrored ritual not so long ago. On that day, she had felt empty. Today, she wasn’t sure what she felt, but it wasn’t emptiness. When she was finished she stood, took Needle from his hand, and tucked it through a loop in her breeches. She met his eyes, and knew he understood. She offered her hand, and pulled him to his feet. 

As she walked away, she saw a scrap of parchment on the ground, and it caught her eye. _Goodbye_ , it said, in Braavosi. Someone – Izembaro, the kindly man, the waif – had known she wouldn’t return. Not long ago – yesterday, even – she would’ve cursed herself furiously for giving anything of herself away. Today, things were different. Screwed into a ball, the note joined the other pieces of Braavos in the river. 


	4. On the Move Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All that mattered was that they didn’t spend another night out in the cold.

Shortly after the new moon, Needle shone like new and Gendry declared himself ready to leave. They took two horses from the stables, and set off north. Arya made sure to cross the river nice and early, the first time it looked calm enough; she didn’t want any trouble at the Twins. Gendry looked uncertain at crossing the deep, wide, fast-flowing river, but he didn’t argue with her.

It was different from the last time they travelled. Last time, there had been danger lurking around every corner, whereas now they scarcely saw another person. But the main difference was the cold. The days were bad enough, but the nights were painful. They lit fires and risked bringing on assailants; had they fallen asleep without one, they might never have woken.

Before, Arya would’ve slept close to Gendry; the size of his body would’ve brought some warmth. But that seemed impossible after the things he had said during his fever. The ninth night after they set out, however, they were both so cold that frostbite was threatening, and Arya made a joke about sleeping with Needle between them. Perhaps he’d never heard the stories, because he didn’t laugh.

Arya could suffer hunger, thirst and long days in the saddle better than he could, but despite her northern blood she succumbed more quickly to the cold. She was too small, too skinny, and by the time a full moon rose her teeth were chattering all day long, and clearly Gendry could stand it no longer. Once the night fire was lit, he pulled her to him, inside his cloak, and she could see no reason to resist. The warmth he brought was the best thing she’d felt in a long time. This close, she realised his smell was just as familiar, and comforting. She allowed herself to relax, and woke up the next morning curled up in the crook of his arm.

After five more nights like this, they came upon a village. There was no inn, but there was a tavern. Gendry knocked hard on the door and asked the lady who answered if she had a room.

“Just you, is it?” she barked, glaring at him suspiciously.

“Me and my little sister,” he answered, gesturing at Arya, peering out from under his arm, offering no argument this time. She’d lost the ability to change her face completely, but she still had the things the Faceless Men had taught her. She knew that your bearing, the way you held your body, and the expression on your face told people things about you. You could make yourself older or younger as you wished, within reason.

The woman seemed to soften. “I’ve the one room,” she told them, drawing back the heavy bolt. “We normally like girls and boys in different rooms, but as she’s your sister, and just a baby …” She let them in. Arya bristled at the ‘baby’ comment, though she knew how small she looked next to him, and Gendry squeezed her arm in reassurance. None of that mattered. All that mattered was that they didn’t spend another night out in the cold.

They look a table in the corner of the room and were served dishes of stew. There seemed to be meat in the stew, but Arya didn’t want to know what it was. She’d been content to play the shy little sister, but now she found everything in the room was getting on her nerves. The men in the corner were laughing too loudly. The room stank. And she felt like everyone was watching her, even though Gendry swore they weren’t. She snapped at him, calling him stupid, and he had to stop her from yelling at the shouting men.

The boy who took their bowls away was young, no more than six or seven, and he dropped the bowl in Arya’s lap, splashing her clothes. She stood up, shoved the boy to one side, and stormed out into the yard. She felt guilty by the time she got there. 

Gendry had followed her out. “What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing,” she snapped, wishing he hadn’t followed her, but at the same time, not really wanting to be alone.

“Rubbish,” he argued. “You’re not normally this bad.”

She knew he was teasing, and on another day she might’ve laughed, but when she tried something unexpected happened. She burst into tears.

~~~~~~~~~~

Gendry lurched on the balls of his feet uncertainly, clearly lost when it came to crying girls, and especially if that girl was Arya. He reached out to her, but she pushed his arm away, trying to get control of herself.

“Come on,” he said awkwardly. “It’s been a long day. You’re worn out, worried about your brother … you’ll feel better after you sleep.”

Arya doubted it, but she followed him down to the room they’d been given. The bed was small, but thankfully well stacked with blankets. “I’ll be back in a minute,” he said, watching her carefully. “You’ll be all right?”

She nodded impatiently, hating it when people fussed, but worried that talking would start her crying again. She remembered when he’d first found out who she really was. He hadn’t been comfortable pissing in front of her ever since. She looked down at her clothes, wondering which ones she should take off for bed. In the end she decided she was tired of sleeping in her clothes, and pulled off everything except her smallclothes, climbing into the bed and pulling the blankets up to her chin, wondering how they were supposed to share a bed with everything that was changing between them.

She needn’t have worried. When Gendry returned, he took two blankets from the bed and started arranging them on the floor.

“You don’t have to do that!” she protested, feeling honestly guilty.

“I think I do,” he said, in his most stubborn voice. After he made his bed on the floor, he picked up some wood and began building up the fire, so that it would burn through the night. When it was done, he pulled off most of his clothes. Arya turned her back, but peered out of the corner of her eye. She watched the firelight playing on his skin, and remembered another time, watching him in the forge at Harrenhal. She’d thought even then that he was more impressive than the knights Sansa and her friends had giggled over, with their perfect hair and flawless skin. Gendry was as strong as any of them – stronger, maybe – but his hair was rough and shaggy, his skin dusty and marked with scars. Strange … it was only _Gendry_ , she’d seen him a hundred times, but now it was nice to watch. But when he stood and turned, she shut her eyes quickly, not wanting him to know. She’d never been the least bit shy before, but now she felt her cheeks burning, and was grateful for the dim light and the cover of the blankets.

When she woke, morning lights from the window filled the room, and the fire had burned out. Gendry was gone, making her heart beat faster for a moment, until she remembered he’d offered to mend some pans and kettles for the innkeeper. She rolled over towards the end of the bed and stood up, turning round to pull up the covers. She almost didn’t notice the red stain on the sheets. Instinctively, her hands flew to her middle, checking for injuries, until some long-forgotten lecture from Septa Mordane popped into her mind. _You’ll marry after you flower. You’ll know you’ve flowered because you bleed. It means your body can bear children_. Arya had hoped it would never happen. But now, when it had, her septa was nowhere to be found. Not her mother, nor her sister … not even Old Nan. She had no idea what to do. She stood still, momentarily lost.

A knock at the door brought her back to her senses. The innkeeper didn’t wait for an answer, she just came right inside. Arya twitched the covers over the bed quickly, guiltily, but hadn’t noticed the stains on her clothes.

“Oh, you poor thing! You’re so young! What are you, nine? Ten?”

“Eleven,” Arya lied; it was instinct by now to preserve a false identity. “But I haven’t … I mean …” In truth she was already thirteen; she didn’t even know how close to fourteen. This was late, not early, she knew, but still horribly unwelcome.

“It’s your first time, isn’t it?” the woman said, and Arya wondered how she knew. Would it be different after this? “Poor thing, this is really when you miss your mother, isn’t it? Your brother’s a good lad, but he’ll be no help with this!”

The whole thing made Arya want to disappear, but in the end she told herself she was lucky the old woman had been there. She found out that she had four daughters of her own, but two had died and one had joined the silent sisters. She knew how to help a girl during her first flowering, but then she had to go and ruin it.

“You’re a woman grown now. You’ll have to wait till the fighting’s done, but once the war’s over, I’m sure your brother will find you a good husband. You’re stronger than you look, I bet, and pretty. You’ll have beautiful healthy children. ” Arya stood silent for a moment, stunned by the idea of _Gendry_ handing her over to some stranger, even though it was stupid. Before all of this, she’d been thinking of spending another night at the inn before rushing out into that dreadful cold again, but now she couldn’t leave quickly enough. She saddled both of the horses while Gendry finished his work. They set off in silence, though Gendry tried to make conversation.

“Are we still in the Riverlands?”

“Don’t know.” Another silence.

“I thought we might be in the north by now.”

“Might be. Don’t know.”

“I thought you’d be happy to be in the north again.”

“Mmm.”

He gave up, and they rode in silence until late afternoon, by which time he’d clearly had enough.

“Have I done something wrong?”

“Mmm? What?”

“You’ve barely said a word all day. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.”

“Just leave it, Gendry.”

“No. Tell me. You owe me that much.”

“I don’t owe you anything!”

“You know that’s not true.” And she did. She knew that well.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Silence.

“You don’t _want_ me to talk about it.”

Silence.

_Fine_ , she thought. _Have your way_. “I had my moon’s blood. My first one.” She couldn’t call it flowering; it sounded so stupid, and, she knew now, not how it really was.

As predicted, he stopped his horse and stammered. She rolled her eyes, put her heels into her horse, and left him standing there. During the evening they started talking again, about the weather, the horses, the food rations, but when night falls they sleep on opposite sides of the fire, in spite of the bitter cold. It stayed like that for days, even after the moods and the bleeding had passed, and she began to miss the warmth and comfort of feeling him next to her, even though she wouldn’t dream of saying it.

~~~~~~~~~~

With the moon a thin crescent, they stopped in another village. Arya listened to the people, the sounds of their voices and the words they used, and knew they were in the north. It made her happier, but also more anxious. She wasn’t sure she sounded like them any more.

Several houses here had collapsed under the weight of the snow, and everyone who’d lived in them had taken to sleeping in the farmer’s barn. Arya and Gendry joined them and attracted no protests. Once again, Gendry’s skills were in demand, but Arya sensed the people were suspicious of southerners, and didn’t want to let him out of her sight. She helped him as best she could in the blacksmiths – hardly used for anything except shoeing horses, as far as Gendry could tell – and watched him melt into that familiar trance he went to when he was working. Despite the cold, he was sweating, his body almost steaming as he hammered away. She tried not to stare, and tried to imagine how any girl would choose a man who danced, or carried a lance decorated with lady’s favors, over this. When he finished the bigger jobs, he started on the horseshoes. 

“Let me see,” she said, after he finished one. He brought it over to her, still dripping from the tub of cold water he’d cooled it in. He was standing far too close; she felt a little like jumping into that bucket herself. She took it from him, their hands brushing, and examined it carefully. Like everything he made, it was fine work.

“Up to m’lady’s high standards?” he teased.

“Shut up,” she retorted, then remembered that never worked, so she let the horseshoe fall to the side, grabbed his shoulders, and kissed him. It felt _good_ , she marvelled. Better than needlework, even. It took him only a minute to respond – he wasn’t as slow on the uptake as she’d always joked – and his big hands were around her waist, and nothing since her childhood bedchamber at Winterfell had ever felt so safe. Her blood seemed to be roaring in her ears, and only got louder when he moved his hands up to her hair, and she felt absurdly grateful that it was longer now, and not quite so matted.

Then, just when she was starting to relax and enjoy it, he pulled away, his face quickly turning scarlet. She took a deep breath, feeling the air around her cool once more, and wondered if he was going to be stupid again.

He seemed to be looking for words, the correct protest, maybe, but couldn’t find them. She decided to cut him off. “What’s your problem? I’m not a child, as you well know!”

“No,” he retorted, his face still red. “But you’re a hundred times more scary as a woman!”

She laughed, then, and knew he was offended, but she couldn’t help herself, and it was his turn to stomp away.  
When they left the village, it was another day of riding in silence, but this time her mood was much brighter. When she had been a little girl, she’d listened to Sansa and her friends giggling about boys and kissing, and knew they were wrong. It wasn’t flowers and rainbows and calculated courtesy, it was fiery heat and loss of control, and blood rushing in your ears. And whenever he got over his stupid stubborn fit, there would be more to come.

~~~~~~~~~~

That night around the campfire, she noticed he was especially tense, and never met her eyes. Something had been preying on her mind.

“I never _what?_ ” 

“What?”

“That day I came back. You seemed to think I was dead, but then you said “I knew you never …” and then you just stopped …”

“Oh. That.”

“Yes. What did you hear about me? You didn’t know I was in Braavos. Does anyone else know I’m alive?”

He turned away, to add more wood to a fire that was still blazing high. 

“Gendry? What’s going on?”

Finally, he looked at her, his face pained. When he spoke, it was rather formal. “Arya of House Stark has married Roose Bolton’s bastard son Ramsay. Making him Warden of the North … and Lord of Winterfell.”

For one of the few times in her life, she was honestly speechless.

“But I knew you never … I mean, the queen sent you – her, I mean. So I knew it wasn’t true.”

“So Bolton’s son is lying?”

“Yes …” he said slowly. “Or … or someone lied to _him_.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean he definitely married _someone_ … but obviously it wasn’t you.”

“Oh.” Suddenly she saw his point, and the yellow firelight seemed to deepen to a bloody red. Some girl was in Winterfell, claiming her name, pretending to be Arya Stark. And this girl had given her hand – Arya’s hand, really – to Roose Bolton’s bastard son, and in doing so, given him Winterfell, her lord father’s seat. Suddenly the anger Arya felt at Cersei, and the Mountain, and even Joffrey, felt like nothing at all. She couldn’t tell who she was angrier at: Bolton’s bastard, or the girl pretending to be her. The last thing she had from her childhood, the name of _Arya_ , the name of a Stark of Winterfell, of Lord Eddard’s daughter, wasn’t even hers any more. She would’ve died before she let anyone take that from her, and now it was gone. For the first time, her feelings showed on her face. She was furious, but also distraught. Gendry moved towards her, pulling her close, and she let him comfort her. She didn’t know what else to do. He was one of the last people in this world who knew the real Arya Stark.

~~~~~~~~~~

They were deep into the north, now. She began to be anxious about her identity; there could be Greyjoy men at Moat Cailin, or Tallharts at Torrhen’s Square, who might know her, and she could take no chances. She pondered for a whole day on the possibility of going to White Harbor and taking a ship to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, where they could join the Wall, remembering how unsuccessful that had been before. In the end it was the bitter cold, and the deep snow, that convinced her. Villages became few and far between the further north they got, and she wasn’t sure how many nights they could survive outdoors. She could tell Gendry would rather have taken the chance – he’d never been on a ship in his life – but she knew this land better than she did.

In White Harbor, she spent another day picking out the likeliest ship. They walked side-by-side up to the captain, to ask about passage to Eastwatch. 

“Aye, I can take you to Eastwatch, sure enough, though I don’t know why anyone would want to go there. Got visions of taking the black, have you, lad? Not a bad idea, these days: out o’the war, and well-fed besides. But you can’t take _her_ with you,” he pointed out, nodding towards Arya. “Who is she, your sister?”

She’d never know what made her do it. “His wife,” she snapped, drawing herself up to her full height, and stamping on Gendry’s foot at the same time to make sure he didn’t give away the lie. She changed her face and body the way she had at the inn, but this time to look older and sure of herself, instead of young and frightened. The captain looked surprised, and a little suspicious, but disinclined to argue. “Well, that’s easy enough,” he sighed. “We’ve one cabin free, if you’ve got the coin.”

Gendry assured him they had, recovering his voice just in time. They had sold the horses for good money in White Harbor, though Arya suspected they were just as likely to be eaten as ridden. As they set sail, they left their cabin and went up on deck, where the crew ran around frantically, trying to counter the rough winter conditions. The captain had a daughter, Ketta, about Sansa’s age, who sat mending fishing nets when she wasn’t looking after her mother, who was unwell and stayed below decks, and talked to Arya after Gendry went to assist the men. They wouldn’t let Arya help.

“Your husband’s very handsome,” Ketta said shyly, lifting her eyes from her work. Arya nodded uncertainly, not sure how to respond, but she found it filled her with a strange fierce pride, even though it was stupid, and he wasn’t her _husband_ , and he was only Gendry, after all.

“How long have you been married? I was supposed to marry the first mate of the _White Mist_ , but it was lost at sea.”

“I’m sorry,” Arya said awkwardly, thinking how relieved she would have been to escape a betrothal like that.

“So when did you get married? You hardly look old enough!”

“A few moons ago,” she replied, making it up as she went along. “Our fathers arranged our marriage when we were children. We were supposed to get married when I was sixteen. I’m only fourteen, but both our fathers died in the war, and he said it was the best way to keep me safe. A traveling Septon we found on the road married us.”

The other girl nodded as if this made perfect sense. “You’re so lucky,” she breathed enviously, and Arya found herself unable to argue.

Once they were out at sea, and away from the rocks, the sea calmed considerably. Arya saw Gendry go inside the cabin as soon as the sky grew dark, but she lingered on deck for a while, staring out at the sea and wondering how many more sunsets she would watch before she could see Jon again. She said a prayer to the gods old and new that he’d still be alive when she got there.

When it was too dark to see, she went inside the cabin, where Gendry sitting was polishing his sword. These days, just being alone with him was enough to make her whole body hum. When he looked up at her, his bright blue eyes had darkened until they were almost black, and she took a wicked joy in seeing the effect she had.

“Why did you tell them we were married?” He sounded honestly confused.

She shrugged. “I just wanted to see what it felt like. I want to be ourselves before we get to the Wall.” What she hadn’t said was plain enough: when they got to the Wall, she would be Arya Stark, the Lord Commander’s little sister, and they wouldn’t ever be alone like this. A thought had been rolling around in her head all day, never still, like the waves she sailed upon. She remembered eavesdropping on her mother and Sansa talking, about how Catelyn Tully had never known Eddard Stark until she married him, but had fallen in love with his goodness, his honor, his unexpected gentleness, until she began to miss his presence, and dread the times he would be away. Arya hadn’t been interested at the time, but all of a sudden, she knew exactly what her mother had meant. She walked over to where Gendry was sitting and kissed him – it was just as good as the first time, perhaps even better – and whispered into his hair, where he couldn’t see her face. “I think I love you.” She thought it would feel like weakness to say it, but instead it sounded fierce, and protective, and _strong_. 

He looked up at her, eyes wide, and for a moment there was joy, but then a shadow passed across them. “You can’t,” he said flatly.

She knew that, but it didn’t seem to matter. As soon as he said it, she could feel the old, familiar fight rising up inside of her. _You can’t use a sword. You can’t have a bow. You can’t hunt boar. You can’t wear that. You can’t say that._ She swallowed. _You can’t save them. You can’t escape. You can’t go home._

“Telling me I can’t do something hasn’t worked very well for people,” she said, more softly than she felt, holding his face in her hand. She felt the warmth of his skin under the rough stubble and breathed deep, inhaling his smoky, earthy smell, feeling herself losing control again. She’d fought for control all her life; she never thought losing it would feel so good.

This time, at least, he had kept pace with her. Hands on her shoulders, he pulled her down on the bed next to him, and she was suddenly looking up at him. It was the first time he had kissed her, she realised. Every other time she had started it. She felt all of his strength pinning her to the bed, and though she always hated being overpowered, it didn’t feel bad at all. The feel of him against her, his mouth on hers, drove all other thoughts from her mind.

But they had always been playful with each other, always teased. She tried to push him onto his back, to roll on top of him, and expected him to let her, but he held firm. She tried again, but met the same resistance. She let out a low, exasperated sound, almost a growl. He broke the kiss and met her eyes.

“I’ve followed you everywhere. You took me across that bloody river. You dragged me onto this bloody ship. You’re not in control here.” And before she could argue, he was kissing her again. She thought about fighting, then changed her mind. _Why fight when you don’t care who wins?_

Before long, the desire for more had built until it was all she could feel. She’d seen the whores in Braavos at their trade, and seen the men and serving women in Harrenhal. The men and older boys around the docks and ships had talked of little else. She’d never seen what all the fuss was about, until now. She slid his thin shirt over his shoulders and ran her hands over his chest, feeling almost light-headed. She broke the kiss for a moment, and pulled her leather vest and linen tunic over her head in one movement. She met his eyes, and watched as he tried to form the words to tell her to stop. But he couldn’t, and then his eyes were no longer meeting hers. Wickedly, she slid her hands back down his chest, but this time she didn’t stop at his waist. She kept going, running her fingers over the rough leather of his breeches, and found he was hard as a rock. When he felt her touch, he gasped sharply, and seemed to gather enough control to roll off her. He lay on his back, breathing heavily.

“We really shouldn’t do that.”

_Shouldn’t_ meant about as much to Arya as _can’t._ “Why not? I want to, and I _know_ you do.”

He took a deep breath. “Because we’re going to take you home, and you’ll be a lady again. If we do this, you’ll be ruined.”

She rolled over until her face was right above his. “What are you going to ruin?” she whispered. “My inheritance? My good name? My father’s plans for me? There’s nothing left.” She lay back down, and pulled him back on top of her. She noticed he didn’t fight her. “Just give me what I need.”

She wriggled out of the rest of her clothes, and he let her tug his breeches down. She thought he looked lost, like a man who was drowning, but was happy to. He reached for one last argument like the drowning man would reach for debris.

“What about …?” he asked, his eyes flitting to her middle. She’d never thought about it, and she wasn’t in the mood to entertain harsh reality. She kissed him again, and then looked deep into his eyes. “I’m a Stark, and you’re an outlaw. And it’s winter. What makes you think we’ll even be alive a year from now?”

It made no sense, but it was all the permission he needed. And it turned out that words like _can’t_ and _shouldn’t_ meant as much to Arya Stark as they ever had.


	5. On Top of the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Who is he, Arya?”

In the morning, she woke wrapped up in his arms, but it was only when she realised she was naked that she remembered what had happened the night before. He was still asleep, and she tilted her head back slowly, not wanting to wake him. She knew that things could never be the same – they couldn’t go back to how they were – but it didn’t worry her. This was so much better.

She also knew that he was bound to panic when he woke up. She rubbed her nose gently against his chin, waking him as softly as she could. Words like _soft_ and _gentle_ were new to her – in the past she might have scoffed at them – but she felt better when she realised it wasn’t easy. And besides … this morning she felt like she could do anything.

As she expected, he smiled upon waking, and then sat bolt upright in bed, his eyes wide. She laughed to herself – _not in control, am I?_ – and pushed him back down. He felt cold, and she pulled the blankets up around their shoulders. She laughed again, quietly. “If Sansa could see me now …”

“Your sister?” he murmured, tightening his arm around her shoulders.

“Mmm. I don’t know if she’d be surprised to see me falling for a man, a strong man … pretending to be his _wife_ … or whether she’d think it was typical Arya, reckless and headstrong …” she trailed off, remembering some of the words her sister had used to describe her … her mother had used them, too.

Gendry still looked tired, but Arya felt more alert and alive than she had in months, maybe years. She rose and dressed, and slipped out of the cabin and up on deck. There she found Ketta, mending nets as usual.

“Good morning,” the older girl greeted her. “You slept well?”

It was the first time she’d thought about it, but Arya realised she’d slept better than she had in months, and nodded her agreement.

“My mother would like to talk to you,” Ketta added.

“Your mother?” Arya was immediately suspicious.

“Oh, yes, she gets lonely by herself, and I told her now nice you were.”

That was disconcerting. Arya had never been described as _nice_ before. Curiosity overcame her, and she followed Ketta to her cabin, below decks. The woman inside was younger than she’d expected, perhaps even younger than her own mother had been. But she was so pale, and so thin, that Arya wondered how she survived. Introductions made, Ketta vanished, leaving Arya alone with the small, pale woman.

“Come, sit with me, child. Talk to me.” 

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Arya said, almost argumentatively. 

“You look so young.”

It wasn’t a question, so Arya didn’t answer it. 

“War makes all children grow up too soon. You’re too young to be married. But my daughter says your husband is a good man.”

“He is,” Arya agreed, but cautiously.

“Why are you going to Eastwatch?”

Arya shrugged, and decided to evade. “I’m not supposed to talk about it.”

“Does your husband intend to take the black?”

“No,” she answered, as honestly as she could. 

“Good. If he did, you’d be abandoned. How long have you been married?”

She reached for a number. “Two moons. Maybe three.”

“Do you need moon tea?”

Wrong-footed, Arya hedged. “Why would I?”

“It’s a small ship,” the woman answered, and chuckled, making Arya flush. “I can see he loves you. But no-one wants a winter baby.”

The reality of the situation caught up with her. It was unlikely, but still possible. She might’ve been ready for a woman’s relationship, for she felt certain she would never be ready to be a mother. And now … she was going to Jon. And if she could, she was going to retake Winterfell for the Starks. She accepted the woman’s moon tea, and wondered whether she was doing the right thing.

But that evening, once she and Gendry retired to their cabin, it was impossible not to do it all over again.

~~~~~~~~~~

They docked at Eastwatch within the month. They had no coin left for horses, so they walked from the port to the most easterly of the Wall’s castles. Here, there was no value left in lies and anonymity. Trusting in the integrity of the brothers of the Night’s Watch, or at least their fear of their Lord Commander, she faced the black brothers with her head held high.

“I am Arya of House Stark, daughter of Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, his _true_ daughter. Take me to Jon Snow.”

Gendry stood behind her, completely lost. She knew he didn’t trust the men of the Night’s Watch; didn’t trust anyone except the Brotherhood, and her. But it turned out she was right. They were given mules, sure-footed along the icy top of the Wall, and sent on their way to Castle Black.

It took four days to make the journey. The castles of the wall, though unmanned, gave them a safe place to shelter each night, and most had a fireplace. Nonetheless, they would’ve fallen asleep in each other’s arms as usual, but for the two Night’s Watch men who travelled with them, escorting them to the Lord Commander. And so they were forced to keep a safe distance, which meant that Arya usually spent the nights alone, while Gendry shared straw mattresses with the black brothers.

As soon as Castle Black came into sight, Arya urged her mule forwards to a gallop, or the nearest thing a mule could manage on the icy path atop the Wall. When she arrived at the gates, the guards blocked her path, and wouldn’t let her through until the escort caught up, bearing the commands of the Eastwatch captain.

When they led her into Jon’s room, her heart leapt into her mouth. Never had she seen his so pale. He looked quite small beneath the furs they had piled on top of him. But when she sat next to him and took his hand, his eyelids fluttered open, and though his voice was faint, his speech was perfectly lucid.

“Arya? Little sister? You’re here.”

“I’m here,” she agreed. “Where else would I be?”

He pulled himself up in his bed, though it clearly cost him a lot. “What about Winterfell?”

“I haven’t seen Winterfell since I was nine years old.”

“What about Ramsay Bolton?”

“I never married him. Someone did, but it wasn’t me.”

He laughed then. “Of course you didn’t. Where have you been?”

“South,” she answered, mostly honestly, though in truth everywhere was south of here. “I heard you were hurt. Where else would I go?”

Impulsively, she threw herself at him, into a fierce hug. The last time they’d met, he was fourteen and the bastard of Winterfell. She was nine and a wild, angry little girl. Now he was a man grown, and Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, and she was thirteen, a dead girl, and an assassin. But it didn’t matter, They were still big brother and little sister, the same blood, images of their dead father, a united front against disapproval and rejection. She could not bring herself to let go.

~~~~~~~~~~

It was many long moments before she remembered Gendry, standing watching in the shadows. In fact, Jon noticed him first.

“Arya? Who is this?” Her brother’s tone was light enough, but she was anxious none the less, and her first instinct was to lie. But as she spun around to look at Gendry, she changed her mind. He was composed; to a stranger, he gave nothing away, but Arya could see the tension in the way he held his shoulders, and something that looked like fear in his eyes. 

“Send your men out,” she told Jon quietly. He gave her a long look, then nodded.

“Wait outside,” he commanded them, and they obeyed without question. Arya was mildly impressed.

Arya considered for a moment how best to explain the last few years. “Did you know Yoren?”

“A little. He left around the same time I arrived. Did you meet him in King’s Landing?”

“He got me out of King’s Landing, and said he would take me north.” She stopped, and beckoned Gendry to come forward. “This is Gendry. He was another of Yoren’s recruits, but the queen was looking for him as well.”

“Why?” Jon asked sharply.

“I don’t know, m’lord,” Gendry answered, but Arya hooted. “He’s no more m’lord than I’m m’lady! He’s my big brother Jon, and a bastard like you!” She saw a look of curiosity pass between the two men.

“Yoren died at the hands of the Lannisters,” she pressed on hurriedly. “We got taken to Harrenhal but we escaped and kept going north.” She was missing out huge parts of the story, important parts, but they could be told another time. “We got separated for a while, but then we found each other again. I found out you were hurt, and Gendry said he’d come with me. It’s dangerous on the road alone.”

Jon said nothing, just looked between the two of them uncertainly.

“He’s my friend!” Arya said, her voice rising. “I had no-one else!”

In the end, Jon nodded, and offered Gendry a weak but friendly smile. “It seems I owe you a debt of gratitude, bringing my little sister safely to the Wall,” he said, and Arya wondered if she was imagining the emphasis on _little sister_.

“It was nothing,” Gendry replied, just about managing to stifle a “m’lord.”

“Hardly,” Jon countered. “If you step outside, one of my men will find you a good meal. You look like you could use one.” It wasn’t a command, but it sounded like one. Gendry lingered a moment, searching Arya’s eyes, and they told him it was all right to go. As soon as the door closed behind him, Jon sat up straighter.

“All right, Arya. Out with the rest of it.”

She told him everything that happened between King’s Landing and Saltpans, except for Jaqen H’ghar, and stopping before she got to Braavos. It took until the early evening to tell the whole tale. As she talked, Jon looked increasingly sad.

“Those things should never have happened to you.”

She shook her head. “I was lucky,” she argued. “I got away from Joffrey and Cersei, and I stayed alive. And I’m here now, all in one piece.”

“You saw things you never should’ve seen. You could have been killed … someone should have been taking care of you.”

“I can take care of myself, big brother! Better than you know!”

“Clearly, you can,” he conceded. “But you weren’t always this way. You were always strong and fierce, but you were so young back then, and so small, with no-one to take care of you.”

She couldn’t help herself. “Gendry took care of me!”

He nodded. “Who is he, Arya?”

“He was an orphan, an apprentice, but his master sold him to Yoren. When the gold cloaks came, I thought they were looking for me, but they wanted him. He was the only one, besides me, who was any use on the road, or in Harrenhal.”

“He doesn’t know why the queen was after him?”

She shook her head. “I didn’t believe him at first, either, but he honestly doesn’t know.”

There was a long pause. “You two seem very close.”

She looked at her hands. “We’ve been through a lot.”

He sighed. “Arya, don’t play the child with me. I can see those days are long gone. I can think of nothing better than having you here with me, and any friend of yours is welcome too, but don’t lie. Not to me.”

She waited a long time before she spoke. The wind howled, and the drip of melting icicles could be heard from the corner of the room. Finally, she broke the silence, having decided on the truth. “I love him, Jon. I don’t know how it happened, but I love him. And he loves me. Sansa would scold me, and maybe Robb would’ve too, but you always understood me. Please say you understand now.”

A light seemed to flicker in his eyes, and his face looked both happy and sad, and he smiled a small smile. “Yes. I understand. You never did anything the easy way, or cared what anyone thought.” He stopped, and reached for her hand. “You’ve grown up, Arya, exactly the way I always thought you would. Strong and fierce and proud, but loyal, and thoughtful, and brave.” His voice cracked. “I can’t believe I finally have you back.” 

And this time he pulled her into a hug, so tight that it felt like he never meant to let go.

~~~~~~~~~~

Later, Arya Stark and her big brother made their way to the hall for dinner. He was still weak, and leaning on her heavily for support. At first he seemed reluctant to rest any of his weight on her, but when he realized how strong she had become, he let her help him. She was aware, as they walked, of the way the eyes of the black brothers lingered on her. Women were not as uncommon here now as they had once been; the wildling spearwives had a small presence, but the arrival of a lady of the Seven Kingdoms, a daughter of Eddard Stark, had created quite a furore. Once that might have bothered her, but she had spent long enough running from Arya Stark. There were worse parts to being Arya than that. 

They passed one group of men, however, who made Jon stop and glare at them. They weren’t staring at Arya out of curiosity; their gaze lingered, and they weren’t looking only at her face. She shrugged it off; in Braavos it had been happening more frequently, and you were lucky if they only looked. But she felt Jon tense against her shoulder, and felt an odd sensation, almost like comfort. For a fleeting moment she imagined how her big brother would have been if they’d all stayed together in Winterfell, and suitors had started calling to vie for her hand. It made her smile. Some of these black brothers were probably sons of lords and knights, and yet Jon wanted to chase them away from her. But at the same time, he’d taken the news that she loved a commoner in stride, all because she herself had chosen.

She had missed Jon so very, very much.

Gendry wasn’t in the hall when they arrived. Arya was aware of the fact as soon as they stepped through the door, but Jon didn’t seem to realize until he was seated in his chair. He glanced around carefully.

“Where’s your friend?”

She smiled wryly. “In the armory. Or the … do you have a forge?”

He nodded. 

“Then that’s where he’ll be. He was an armorer’s apprentice, on the Street of Steel in King’s Landing,” she told him, strangely aware of a sound of pride in her voice.  
Jon gave her a long look, then nodded. He turned and called to one of his brothers. “Caddren! We have a visitor in the forge, or possibly the armory. Find him, and invite him to join us for dinner.”

The other man nodded and vanished, and Jon waved another man over with platters of food. “People will talk about the two of you,” he told her, as he tore off two chunks of bread from a brown loaf.

She shrugged, but it was half-hearted. On the one hand, it didn’t matter what the brothers of the Night’s Watch muttered amongst themselves. But on the other hand … everything mattered. She knew too much of the world now to pretend it didn’t.  
Gendry entered the hall uncertainly, and sat down on Arya’s bench, though a good arm’s length away. After an awkward moment, Jon tore another piece of bread from the loaf and handed it to Gendry, who took it without meeting his eyes. Arya watched them, hawk-like.

They ate in silence for a few moments, until Jon set down his knife and looked at them, at one and then the other. “The Night’s Watch takes no part,” he said softly. “It is not our place to guard the honor of a lady, nor to protect fugitives wanted by the crown.”

Arya started to protest, but Jon smiled at her. “But we would never turn away hungry travellers in the depths of winter,” he continued, “as long as they are … discreet.”  
She shot a sidelong glance at Gendry, unsurprised to see that he had blushed to the roots of his hair. She herself was thinking further ahead. She had been so focused on getting to the Wall, on reaching Jon’s side, that she’d never stopped to consider what would come next. Something Jon had said – “travellers” – hovered in her mind. They could not stay here.

~~~~~~~~~~

It was surprisingly warm in the room she had been given, considering the walls were made of ice, but Arya still felt cold. The room was far enough, but it was right on the edge of Castle Black, and so high up she might as well have been atop the wall. Gendry’s room was far away, adjoining the kitchen, right on the ground. To make matters worse, guards were posted outside Arya’s door, so there was no way to sneak out. Gendry had accepted all of this with grace, seeming relieved that things weren’t worse, but Arya couldn’t help feeling insulted. She’d looked after herself among the most wicked men the known world had to offer; she hardly needed guarding from Gendry. Or any of the black brothers, for that matter. And as much as she felt aggrieved, she also felt frustrated. What business was it of theirs?

She only saw him at mealtimes, and they had to be careful about what they said. This evening she had walked in to find all eyes upon her, as she always did, but she was only aware of his bright blue eyes, and the way they looked at her. She had been searching her mind for a satisfactory outcome to the problem, and had even tried to talk to Jon about it – he’d seemed supportive enough – but to no avail. She found herself wishing she and Gendry were back on the road. She had been lost and freezing and hungry, but free. Free to go where she wanted, to speak her own mind, and to fall asleep at night with him. Was she destined to remember those desperate, frightened days as the best of her life?

In the end, she gave up, and spoke to Gendry freely over dinner, not caring who heard. “I can’t stand this any more,” she said fiercely, cutting into her salt pork with more force than necessary. He smiled, then saw that underneath the anger she was genuinely upset. He reached to take her hand, then thought better of it. “Maybe we should just _go_ ,” she said, just as fiercely.

“Go where?” he asked, the answer plain in his voice.

She sighed. He was right of course. There was nowhere they could go; at least, nowhere safe. They could flee, but sooner or later the cold or hunger or lawless men would catch up with them. But the safety of Castle Black felt too much like a cage.

“I’ve been thinking,” Gendry said, with his customary pained expression. “What if we left Westeros?”

And there it was, just like that. They could go away, across the Narrow Sea. Not to Braavos – Arya could never go back there – but to one of the other Free Cities, or even further. They knew how to survive – Gendry even had a trade, one that was valuable anywhere – and nobody would call him a bastard, or her a lady, and try to stop them being together. Jon was recovering well, and the rest of her family was lost … why not go?

_Because Winterfell is still in the hands of the enemy,_ Arya thought. _And another girl is using my name. And Sansa … Sansa may be out there somewhere_. She glanced torn, from Gendry’s hopeful face to her brother across the room, and felt as though she was being torn in two.

She struggled for words to say, but a strange sound saved her from having to speak. A horn sounded, loud and clear, from atop the wall.


	6. There Is No Choice At All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What d’you think they’ve been doing here on the wall? Following a bastard! Following you! And you are our father’s only living son! Who else would lead the army that took back Winterfell?”

Every single black-cloaked man in the room was on his feet immediately, rushing out of the door to see what the horn meant. Arya found herself caught up in the tide, and for once, nobody paid any attention to her. When they finally got to the top of the wall, she found them all staring north, looking for signs of attack, but for some reason she found herself wandering to the south side, alone. A moment later she felt Gendry come up behind her.

“What is it?” he asked, peering through the blizzard that raged through the dim light.

“A rider,” she answered, and that was all she knew. “But he’s coming from the wrong place.” Riders returning from beyond the wall were greeted by the Night’s Watch, but this sole horse was coming from the south. She wondered who rode it, but as it drew nearer, she saw two riders. The horse was struggling, stumbling, and both riders looked close to death. As she turned, Arya saw Jon rush away, down to the bottom of the wall, to see who this was. Arya had to push and shove black brothers out of the way to keep up with him, and Gendry was left behind.

Down here, the blizzard seemed to rage more fiercely, the wall offering little shelter from winter’s fury. The horse didn’t become visible until it was quite near, and a mere moment later, one of its riders tumbled from the saddle and lay still in the snow. Two brothers rushed forward, lifting the falling man and guiding the horse towards Castle Black.

Once they were all inside, Jon suddenly shouted aloud. He ordered all the men from the room. Arya was swept along with them, but Jon grabbed her arm. “No. Not you.” Moving forwards, he unwound scarves and cloaks from one of the figures, the one who had fallen from the horse, and now sat huddled in a corner. The man was horribly disfigured, gaunt and white-haired and toothless, though young enough. Jon stepped back as though he was one of the White Walkers themselves. “You …” he trailed off, apparently having no other words.

Jon’s fear made Arya nervous, but she crept forwards anyway, to see for herself. When she did, she felt as though a horse had kicked her. _“Theon!”_

The man shuddered. “No. No … yes, I mean. I was. I am. I was.”

Jon was still weak, but he drew his sword and rushed forward. Arya was not sure what made her do it, but she grabbed his arm, stopping him. 

“Arya! He killed Bran and Rickon! He destroyed Winterfell! He _must_ die!”

She could feel familiar hatred burning inside of her, as though her blood was boiling, but she didn’t let go of Jon’s arm. “He was there, though. He knows what happened. We have to hear him.”

The creature she had once known as Theon Greyjoy nodded frantically and reached towards her, but she backed away in disgust. 

“We can kill him later.” She turned to leave, and it was only then she noticed the other figure, the only who had somehow stayed on the horse. She gasped in spite of herself, and said to Jon. “Have him placed in a cell. Quickly.”

Jon summoned two guards to dragged Theon away, sobbing. Gingerly, Arya approached the other one, also sobbing, wrapped in many cloaks, but her face was visible. It was frostbitten, black in places, and hysterical almost beyond recognition, but Arya recognised her none the less.

“Jeyne Poole.”

She heard Jon gasp quietly. Jeyne Poole had been Sansa’s silly little friend, who had gone south with them to King’s Landing and had never been heard from since their father was murdered. How could she be here, looking like this?

“It was you, wasn’t it?” Arya said softly. “You were the false me.” When she had first heard about the supposed wedding of Arya Stark and Ramsay Bolton, she had been so furious it almost choked her. She hated this pretender as much as she hated anyone on her list. And yet now, face to face with the impostor, she couldn’t hate her … only pity her. 

“I’m not false,” the girl – _Jeyne_ – wept. “I’m Arya Stark. Arya Bolton, I mean. I am. I am. I’m _Arya_.”

If Arya herself felt pity, Jon apparently felt nothing of the sort. He charged forward, sword still drawn, causing Jeyne to recoil and shriek. “Arya Stark stands before you! How dare you claim her name! How dare you give away our father’s birthright … our _home!_ ”

“I’m Arya!” Jeyne insisted. “I have to be! He … he … you don’t know what he’ll _do!_ ”

Gently, but firmly, Arya took Jon’s sword from his hand and laid it aside. She crouched down beside Jeyne. “What did Ramsay do?”

The tale came out. Arya was filled with revulsion, and Jon stormed around the small room with obvious rage. Arya knew he was imagining what it would have been like if the Lannisters had managed to deliver her, the real Arya, to Ramsay Bolton, instead of this unfortunate impostor. Arya finally lost her patience, and sent Jon from the room. He started, no longer accustomed to being given orders, but one look at Arya’s face convinced him to obey. She knew where he would go – straight to the cells, to question Theon. She hoped his anger would not get the best of him. There was still much they needed to know.

~~~~~~~~~~

It was almost dawn when Arya left Jeyne, who had succumbed to exhaustion and fallen asleep, and went looking for Gendry. Among the chaos, she had lost her guards, and made her way undetected to the armory. He wasn’t working, just standing there, leaning against the anvil, waiting for her. As soon as she saw him, the impact of the previous hours hit her. Silently, she went to him, and he held her tight against him for a long time.

An icily polite cough made them break apart. Arya turned slowly to see Jon standing in the doorway. The look on his face made her insides twist sharply; she’d never seen him in so much pain – and she knew she looked exactly the same. Gendry gave her a gentle nudge, and she stumbled across to Jon. She buried her face in his fur cloak and held him far too tight, clinging to one of the only parts of her old life that remained. 

“I’ve had the tale from Theon,” Jon told them both hoarsely. “Arya, we must speak, and soon.” He looked pointedly at Gendry, though no impolitely, but Arya shook her head.

“You can speak in front of him,” she told her brother, before lowering her voice. “Anything I do affects him as much as me.”

Eventually, Jon nodded, and sat down on the rough wooden bench, pulling Arya down next to him. Gendry stayed where he was, leaning against the anvil. “I have a problem,” Jon said, haltingly. “Winterfell cannot remain with Bolton’s bastard, and he must be punished for what he has done. He must be _killed_.”

Arya ran her fingers along Needle’s hilt, an action that did not escape Jon or Gendry.

“But the Night’s Watch is sworn to take no part,” he went on, looking down at his feet. “I cannot lead the men here to Winterfell to take back our father’s seat, and we do not have the authority to bring the wretch to account. And even if I were willing to desert the Watch, men would not follow a bastard.”

“Don’t be _stupid!_ ” Arya burst out hotly. “What d’you think they’ve been doing here on the wall? Following a bastard! Following _you!_ And you are our father’s only living son! Who else would lead the army that took back Winterfell?”

There was a long pause, and Jon, looked up, but not at Arya. She saw something unspoken pass between Gendry and her brother, before they both looked at her.

“You.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The silence in the room was deafening. Surely this was a jape? 

“You think I can lead an army?”

“I think you can do anything you decide to, little sister,” Jon said softly, and Arya began to laugh, but she was the only one. Jon’s face was steady and serious; Gendry looked uncertain, and a little afraid. The silence swallowed her laughter.

“You are the last trueborn child of Lord Eddard Stark,” Jon said slowly. “His sons are all dead; his elder daughter married to the enemy, and lost to us. If you declare yourself, any loyal men that are left will rally to your cause.”

She shook her head uncertainly. “I was never loved like that … that was _Sansa._ ”

It was Jon’s turn to laugh. “You have no idea how beloved you were. They didn’t call you Arya Underfoot at Winterfell to mock you, you know. Besides, it won’t matter. One of the things Theon said was …” he trailed off suddenly and looked away, as if she shouldn’t here it.

“What?” she demanded loudly. “What did the Turncloak say?”

Jon took a deep breath. “That the weeping of Lady Arya was more of a threat to Ramsay than all the armies in the Seven Kingdoms.”

Arya swallowed hard.

“You see? The north remembers! There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, and you are the only Stark left!”

The reality of his words hit home, at last. _The Stark in Winterfell._ She had been last in line to ever hold the castle, behind all her brothers and sisters, and now she was the only one who could. She thought of everything it meant. It meant going to war, convincing men to follow her cause. It meant going up against all the evil in Jeyne’s tale, and Theon’s. And if they succeeded, it meant being the Lady of Winterfell, Warden of the North. It was too much to take in.

She looked across at Gendry, and though his jaw was tense, he had guarded his face well, and given nothing away.

~~~~~~~~~~

Arya had stopped really hearing things after that. Jon had left, muttering something about ravens, leaving Arya and Gendry staring at each other in stunned silence. When it got too much for her, she blurted out, “I never asked for this!”

“Of course not, Lady Stark.”

“Stop it!” she shouted. If she’d been near enough, she would have hit him. She could’ve thrown something, but her heart wasn’t really in it. 

“No,” he replied stubbornly. “You need to get used to hearing it.”

“Not from _you!_ You know that’s not me!” She breathed deeply, composing herself. _Calm as still water._ “I’ll play their part, if that’s what they need. I can be anyone. But … you wouldn’t know. You can _lose_ yourself.” She crossed the room and took his hand. “I need you with me. You know me. The _real_ me. Don’t let me get lost.”

“I swear it,” he said softly, squeezing her hand. “I’m not losing you again.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Some of the black brothers objected to the ravens Jon had sent, summoning loyal northmen to Castle Black to swear allegiance to Arya Stark and restore her to Winterfell. In the end, though, he managed to convince them. The Night’s Watch needed the support of Winterfell, and were only likely to get it from a Stark. The work of the Watch went on, though, and Arya rarely saw her brother. When they passed each other, she always shot him a questioning glance, asking about the return of the ravens. The answer was usually a shake of the head.

Theon Greyjoy remained confined to a cell, and Arya tried not to think about him. One of the wildling women had been brought in to care for Jeyne, as Castle Black no longer had a maester. Once or twice Arya had forced herself to visit, but she found the sobbing unbearable. Besides, she couldn’t stop herself being angry with Jeyne. She should have _fought_. Arya would have, no matter the cost.

She still didn’t see much of Gendry. Her patience was wearing thin, and she was growing anxious. If any men did turn up to support her, she wanted to be strong. She wanted to train with Needle but more than anything, she wanted to train with Gendry. It was less about preparing herself than preparing _him_. He would insist on going with her, she knew, and she could not lead him to his death.

Then, one day, as Arya looked at Jon and expected his usual disappointed shake of the head, he smiled instead, and lifted a fist full of papers. After weeks without answer, several had come at once. The following days brought more and more replies, and her brother’s smiles told her he was getting the answers he wanted. Late one evening, he asked to see her, and the guards escorted her to his quarters.

“The men should start arriving in the coming days,” he told her. “Some I hadn’t expected to support us, as well.” 

“Is it a trap?” she asked instantly. Two things she had learned since she last saw Winterfell were suspicion and distrust. “Will they attack us instead?”

He shook his head. “I don’t expect so. It would be foolish to attack us here. Far more likely they’ve found life under Bolton rule less appealing than they imagined. Some never stopped supporting us. Lords from White Harbor and Castle Cerwyn, Oldcastle and Ramsgate, Torrhen’s Square and Widow’s Watch, sons of men who went south with Robb, now come north to support his sister.”

She kept silent, taking this in. These people, some betrayed and abused, would now look to her to rule them fairly and gently, as her lord father had. She remembered him, taking off Father’s face and putting on his lord’s face, only it was the same face, and no magic tricks were needed. Could she put on the face of the Lady of Winterfell, and rule like her father?

“Arya, listen to me. When they arrive, I want you to stay out of sight. Don’t greet them. I’ll meet them and present your claim, make them aware of what happened, but you must remain unseen.”

This sounded fine to Arya, but she didn’t understand. “Why?”

“I want them all to be here, and all of one mind, before you meet them,” he explained, and she understood that he was trying to protect her, even now.

~~~~~~~~~~

When it happened, it all came so quickly. The long tables in the great hall were soon filled with men who had once sworn their loyalty to her father and brother; or at least, sons of those men. Willing to stay out of sight, but unwilling to be cut out of the plans entirely, Arya had taken to spending long hours in the kitchens. It was warm there, and she could hear every word the men were saying.

“Why should we support the younger sister, while the elder lives?”

“Sansa married Tyrion Lannister,” Jon argued back. “Even if we could find her, if we place her in Winterfell we make the Imp your Lord.”

“Well, the other married Bolton, and just fled Winterfell herself. The bastard has demanded her back. She could walk in, if she wanted to.”

Arya heard tankards banging on tables, and a shout of voices, all in agreement. The Lord Commander let them have their say, and waited for silence to fall.

“That girl was not Arya Stark.”

Another shout rose up, and Arya closed her eyes. This was the moment, she knew, when it would all be decided. Would she be Lady Stark of Winterfell, or a lost girl roaming the Free Cities? She couldn’t say, in that moment, which she was hoping for.

“Arya Stark, my sister, has been missing since the day they arrested my lord father. She was never found, and all believed her dead. In truth, she had fled King’s Landing, and has come through war and winter, to the Wall. She finds herself alone, her trueborn brothers dead, her sister gone. She is the last Stark, and she demands you fulfil the oaths you swore to her father, and to her brother.”

“Well, where is she, then?” another voice bellowed. “I see lots of crows, but no direwolves.”

“Aye,” shouted another. “And how do we know you speak the truth? Perhaps this girl you speak of is the true impostor?”

Once again, a great noise erupted, and Arya felt her blood run cold. All of those days when she had wondered if she had stopped being _Arya_. It had been her choice. Was her name now beyond her grasp? Did it truly belong to another?

“I can only give you my word,” Jon said simply, “and each of you must decide whether the word of Eddard Stark’s son is enough, or whether my bastard blood makes my word worth nothing. All men say I have my father’s look. As does Arya. It was one of the things that bound us. This false girl may fool a southron lord or knight, but not a true northerner.”

For once, the room was silent. Without seeing their faces, Arya could not tell whether or not he was persuading them.

“You should also know this. How many of you knew my aunt Lyanna?”

A murmur ran through the men, but who knew what it meant? Arya knew what he was trying to do. People said she resembled her aunt, and in more than appearance. They had both grown up hearing the stories.

“She was a great rider, and had a wild spirit. My sister is the same. To the despair of her mother, she refused all attempts to tame her. She shunned music and needlework, and wished to learn riding, and swordplay. When I left to take the black, I gave her a gift, a sword of her own. It was specially made for her: short and light, and the hilt was shaped to be held by the left hand, as my sister always preferred.”

They were all listening closely know. Arya shuffled closer to the door, and peered into the hall. Her brother had laid a sword down on the table. It was small, though not as small as Needle. He then beckoned one of the brothers, and a minute later Jeyne arrived, nervous and frightened, clinging to the steward Caddren. She seemed terrified of the eyes that all watched her beadily.

Jon smiled at her gently, and looked towards the sword on the table. Hesitantly, she came forward and lifted the sword, weakly, awkwardly … in her right hand.

A shout went up, and Jeyne dropped the sword in terror, darting to hide behind Jon, and he had Caddren lead her from the hall. 

“ … proves nothing!” Arya heard one man shout.

“She was no Stark!” another bellowed back.

There was no saying which way the tide would turn, but in the end most seemed to agree. The girl who had married Ramsay Bolton was not Arya Stark.


	7. Not Lost, After All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your home would always call you back … and there’s no place for me there.

Arya let out the breath she had been holding. Her name was not lost. It was hers to retake. She could be Arya Stark of Winterfell once again. It crossed her mind to rush into the hall, seize the sword – deftly, in her left hand – and prove it to all of them. 

Instead, she turned in the opposite direction, and ran just as quickly to the forge. When Gendry saw her, he laid down the hammer and tongs just in time, as she threw herself at him.  


“It’s happening,” she mumbled against his chest. “They know she’s not me.”

“You’re going home,” he said, stroking her hair.

They were as close as they’d ever been, and yet she could feel a distance opening up between them. “You’re coming with me.”

“Mmm.”

“You’re coming with me!” she said again.

Despite her protests, he pulled away. “I’ll go with you,” he said steadily. “But … I knew this day was coming. Your home would always call you back … and there’s no place for me there. When the fighting’s done …”

“There’ll be a place for you,” she insisted. “When I rule the north, who’s going to stop me?”

To her surprise, he laughed. “Listen to you,” he said, with a shake of his head. “Listen to Arry the orphan boy. _When I rule the north!”_ He sat down on a stool, looking tired. “How did we end up here? When you rule the north, you’ll be Lady of Winterfell. You’ll have a steward, probably a castellan, and no end of sworn men. You’ll have to keep them all happy.”

“So?” Arya demanded, slightly sullenly. He wasn’t saying anything she didn’t already know, but she’d been trying to avoid facing it. “You can still come with me.”

“And, what? Make swords for your men?”

“If you want.”

“And you think all of these people are going to let the bastard blacksmith anywhere near you?”

“I …”

“No, they won’t,” he spoke right across her. “They’re going to guard you like a maiden princess in a song, and you’ll end up marrying whichever of them can best support your house.”

“Gendry, I …”

“How did you think this was going to end for us?” he said bitterly, turning back to the anvil and lifting the hammer. 

Arya ran back to her room. She hadn’t felt this trapped, this _helpless_ , since Harrenhal.

~~~~~~~~~~

She brooded, silently, in her room all day. She was cold, but she didn’t bother to light a fire. She grew hungry, but didn’t want to leave the room. She’d been there several hours when she heard a knock at the door, and Jon came inside, carrying a tray of food.

“I thought you might be hungry.”

Arya took the tray, but didn’t eat anything at first. Then the smell became too much for her, and she took a large bite.

“So what’s wrong?”

“What makes you think something’s wrong?”

“Arya, I could always tell. I still can.” He sat down. “I take it you heard what happened with the northmen.”

Her mouth was full, so she just nodded. A moment passed. “They know she’s not me.”

“They know,” he agreed. “But now they want to see the real you.”

She closed her eyes, swallowed her food, and sighed. “Of course they do.”

“Will you meet them tonight?”

Silence. 

“Well?”

“I don’t want to.”

He said nothing, waiting for her to say more.

“Once they see me, there’s no going back.”

“That’s already true, little sister.” He reached out and mussed her hair. _Gendry touches my hair as well,_ she thought. _How can the same thing feel so different?_

“I don’t know if I can be the Lady of Winterfell,” she said quietly. “I was never good at all that. Duty never meant much to me.”

“Is this about Gendry?”

“No. I mean, a little. Yes.”

Jon sighed. “I remember when I left Winterfell. I wanted to join the Watch, more than anything, but everyone wanted me to know what I was giving up. Titles, honors … and a family of my own. Sons, daughters … a wife. That’s the sacrifice all the men here have made.”

She glared at him, all too aware of his meaning.

“You want to take back Winterfell. That will need sacrifice, too.”

She looked at him, suddenly young again, a little girl looking to her big brother. “How do I make that decision?”

“I fear it has already been made.”

She shut her eyes tightly, and turned away, suddenly worried that she might cry.

~~~~~~~~~~

Jon had left her there alone, knowing that was all she wanted. Eventually she guessed it was time to sleep, and lay down on the straw mattress, but exhausted as she was, sleep would not come. Her thoughts were like thorns in her mind. In the end she gave up, and headed for the top of the wall for some air. She glared at the guards at she passed them, letting them know not to follow her too closely. Once she reached the top of the wall she started to walk. Up here, she could understand the appeal of the Night’s Watch, and the Wall; far above the world, and on the edge of it. It was a pleasantly scary feeling. Along the way were small shelters that sentries used when they were on duty. Some were rough wooden huts, others looked like small caverns of ice. As she approached one wooden shelter she heard Jon’s voice, muttering to himself, and was going to turn back until she heard her name. 

“There’s something else we need to talk about,” he said, shifting uncomfortably. “I wish Maester Aemon was still here. Or Sam.”

“Who’s Sam? Arya asked, grateful for the distraction.

“Samwell Tarly. He took his vows at the same time as me. He never should have been here. He was too gentle for this life – he always called himself craven, though he was nothing of the sort – so I sent him south, on a ship bound for the Citadel.”

A memory rose in Arya’s mind. “What did he look like?”

His look said it was an odd question, but he answered none the less. “Very fat, to be honest, but he has a kind face.”

“I met him,” Arya whispered. “In Braavos. He was traveling with another brother … a singer.”

“Dareon,” Jon nodded. “He accompanied Sam from Eastwatch. But … you truly saw Sam? He’s still alive?”

“A few moons before I left Braavos,” Arya told him. “But Dareon … he’s dead.”

“How?”

She forced herself to look her brother in the eye. “He deserted. The penalty for desertion is death.”

His eyebrows rose, and a shadow passed across his eyes. “And the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword,” he recalled, in a hollow voice. She nodded, silently. Then he shook his head, forcing himself back to the matter at hand.

“I wish Sam was here now; or Aemon, our old maester. He was a Targaryen prince, you know. Or had been, before his chain. His family wanted him to be king, but his oath as a Black Brother and his duty as a master meant too much to him.”

Arya’s grey eyes regarded him coolly. She’d dealt with enough riddles in her short life, but Jon’s seemed to have two meanings. Should she, like Aemon Targaryen, forsake her right to rule in favour of the promises she had given, and the choices she had made? Or should she learn from Aemon’s mistake, breaking her vows in order to seize her birthright, for the good of the realm?  
It was suddenly all too much for her, and she rushed away from her brother, slipping on the ice, but never quite falling. She stayed among the trees near the foot of the wall, practicing her needlework viciously on their trunks and snowy branches, until the weak winter’s dawn began to appear. In the dim light Jon came to her.

“Arya, I didn’t mean to upset you. We need to make a plan. Even with the lords’ support, we can’t just march on Winterfell. We need a strategy, and you need to be a part of it.”

She didn’t answer, didn’t even look at him. Furiously, she stuck the strongest tree with the pointy end, causing snow to tumble down.

Its meaning wasn’t lost. “Is that supposed to be me?”

“No,” she said smartly, never breaking her stride. “It’s a tree. When I beat it, and I will, it won’t mean anything at all.”

“Come inside,” he urged her. “It’s freezing, and we have work to do.”

“No,” she replied instantly. “I have work to do here.”

“Fighting trees?” he smiled. She ignored him, and for a moment she almost seemed to be her old self, furious beyond reason over some injustice perpetrated by Sansa or Septa Mordane. A child. 

“Could I _command_ you to come inside?” Her look gave him the very answer he’d expected, and he gave up.

~~~~~~~~~~

Half an hour later, when even the smell of breakfast cooking couldn’t lure her inside, Gendry appeared. By this point she was tiring, and only her remaining anger was keeping her going.

“The lord commander bids me tell m’lady her presence is requested.”

This brought the last of the anger out of her in a furious stab of her sword, and she tucked it back in her belt, and leaned forwards on her knees, breathing hard. If she could have caught her breath, she would’ve instructed him to return to her brother bearing some of the insults she’d learned in the harbours of Braavos. As it was, she just glared at him.

He walked nearer to her, and leaned against the scarred tree trunk, watching her carefully.

“Are you and Jon teaming up against me, now?” That hurt. It was always her and Jon against Sansa.

“No,” he said bluntly. “I told him to stop thinking of you as his baby sister.”

Arya blinked. She hadn’t expected him to stand up to Jon. “And what did he say to that?”

“He asked me if I wanted to protect you.”

She didn’t need to know the answer to that. She started to speak, but Gendry cut her off. “You think we want to protect you in spite of everything you’ve seen and done. But maybe we want to _because_ of all that!”

She opened her mouth again, but he wasn’t finished.

“No-one’s asking you to do anything you don’t want to. _You_ want to take back Winterfell. _You_ want to take back your name. _You_ want to take vengeance on Bolton. You’re going to lead an army of men. You’re going to _fight._ It’s everything you ever wanted. Don’t pretend you don’t.”

She’d never considered him to be so insightful. Strong and honest and loyal, but … well, she’d called him stupid enough times. He _knew_ her, perhaps even better than Jon did. He was right. Everything she wanted was there, and she just had to stand up, declare herself, and take it. So what was stopping her?

She said the words as quietly as she could, but they still hurt. “It’s not _everything_ I want. Not anymore.”

He shuffled uncomfortably. “I spoke too harshly before …”

“You spoke the truth.” She couldn’t deny it.

“It doesn’t matter. I won’t leave you,” he said. “And I believe in you. You can do this.”

She held his gaze for a long time, then nodded, resignation turning to resolve in that one small gesture. “Where is Jon now?”

“Breaking his fast with the lords. _Your_ lords.”

She chewed her lip for a moment, thinking. Then, her mind made up, she started walking back towards the castle. As she passed him, she brushed her fingers against his, but didn’t dare look back.

~~~~~~~~~~

The hall was empty but for Jon, and the lords of the north. Arya stood unseen in the doorway for a moment, then strode in determinedly, making no effort to hide. Jon saw her first, and flew to his feet, trying to make it look as though he had planned this.

“My lords, as you requested … my sister, Lady Arya of House Stark.”

Arya stopped and regarded them, arms folded across her chest, her expression cold. For the second they remained seated, she enjoyed gazing down at them imperiously, until they all rose respectfully to their feet, towering above her. She swallowed hard and lifted her chin, refusing to let them make her feel like a little girl.

One of them turned to look at Jon, then back to Arya. “Yes, she has the Stark look. Like Eddard … aye, and Lyanna.”

Most of them nodded in agreement, but not all. Arya glanced at a bowl of autumn apples, near to Jon, and then met his eyes meaningfully. They had always finished each other’s sentences. Wordlessly, Jon took an apple and threw it at his little sister. Several of the men gasped, but at the last possible moment Arya’s left hand flew to Needle’s hilt, drew the blade, and speared the apple. She lowered the blade, removed the fruit, and took a bite, chewing it slowly. She swallowed, and grinned sardonically. “Thank you, brother.” She tucked Needle back in her belt, walked to the chair next to Jon, and sat down.

Well beyond the walls of the hall, Gendry heard the shouts. “Stark! Stark! Lady Arya!”


	8. Taking the Long Road (Was Well Worth the Time)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t doubt your skill with a sword. But you won’t have a sword!”

It was a long and tiring day. Arya’s joy at seeing so many men – great men – loyal to House Stark, to her father, to _her_ soon soured when it became clear that they still didn’t have the numbers to march on Winterfell. The lords before her were all younger sons and brothers; the lords her father had known had marched south with Robb, and most of them had never returned. Several more had joined Bolton’s cause when he became the strongest claimant. The talking went on far too long, and nothing was decided. In the late afternoon when they broke apart, Arya fled.

She found Gendry eating in the kitchen, and spoke with him in hushed whispers.

“I won’t be leading an army. There is no army. We don’t have the numbers.”

“So what will you do?” he asked, pouring her a cup of hot wine.

She cupped it in her cold hands. “I don’t know. Most of them think that if Bolton was out of the way, his men would come back to us. Not that I want them.”

He looked away for a moment, then back at her. “You need to kill Ramsay Bolton.”

She stared back at him. He was right. For the moment, it wasn’t a Stark lord – or lady – that was needed. It was an assassin. Not caring who saw them, she leaned forward and kissed him, then darted away in search of Jon.

~~~~~~~~~~

He was alone in his chambers.

“No, Arya. Absolutely not.”

She folded her arms defiantly. “Why not? It’s the perfect plan. We don’t need great numbers, and I spent _years_ training for this.”

There was a chuckle from behind her, and she whirled around; she wasn’t aware Gendry had followed her.

“I’m not letting you anywhere near that monster! Which is another question: how do you propose to _get_ anywhere near him?”

She shrugged. “Winterfell is my home. I know those chambers and hallways, better than they do.”

He wasn’t convinced. “The castle is a ruin. You won’t find the home you left. And Ramsay will be well guarded. So how are you going to get close enough to kill him?”  
There was a short silence while Arya considered this, but in the end the answer came from behind her.

“She’s his wife.”

~~~~~~~~~~

There was a long silence. The winter wind howled outside, while the three of them looked at one another uncertainly. Arya’s mind was racing. Gendry’s words had the ring of truth. Ramsay Bolton had married Arya Stark. Of course, that didn’t help her. Jeyne Poole would be allowed to walk into Winterfell as Arya Stark, but she herself wouldn’t. A look at Jon told her he was thinking the same thing.

“I don’t want you to do this. I don’t want you anywhere near the castle until Ramsay’s dead. But … he wouldn’t be that surprised to learn that the Lannisters handed him an impostor. And … he may be inclined to accept that she was an impostor, as she’s lost to him either way.”

Arya listened intently, following his meaning. “He would accept the true Stark heir, if she were handed to him.”

“Which is absolutely not going to happen.” He looked resolute, the way their father had.

“It has to. If someone takes me back there and tells Ramsay he’s found the real Arya Stark, he may be willing to believe it. Then I’ll be close enough to kill him.”

Jon looked incredibly pained. “You’ll be alone. With him.”

“I can look after myself!”

“I don’t doubt your skill with a sword. But you won’t have a sword!”

She dropped her gaze, less proud of this fact that she once had been. “I don’t need a sword to kill. There are other ways. Lots of ways.” When she lifted her eyes, Jon still looked distressed. She didn’t want to look at Gendry, who had stayed silent during this exchange; she didn’t want to see fear or disgust in his eyes. But she forced herself to look, and if anything, he looked relieved.

She looked back at Jon. “Which of these lords, or their men, do you trust?”

“None of them, really. Why?”

“I need someone to hand me over.”

He shook his head. “That won’t work. All of these men are Bolton enemies. They won’t be allowed anywhere near.”

She considered that. “What about one of your men?”

“The Night’s Watch takes no part. Besides, the men I trusted are gone from here. And, as current warden of the north, Ramsay may execute any man he deems a Night’s Watch deserter.”

Arya tried to come up with another option. She couldn’t just hand herself over. She had to appear reluctant, even resistant, or Ramsay would be immediately suspicious.

“I could do it.” Arya turned to face Gendry, who finally looked as pained as Jon had. Arya immediately saw the sense in his solution, and turned back to her brother. 

“He’s right. He was knighted by Beric Dondarrion, and made an outlaw, of the Brotherhood Without Banners. No-one trusts outlaws; most of them wanted to collect my ransom. He could bring me to Ramsay, for payment.”

Jon wasn’t even looking at her. He was looking at Gendry in absolute fury. The boy Arya had once known might even have attacked him, but the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch restrained himself. He spoke to his sister without looking at her.

“Arya. Leave us.”

She would sooner have jumped off the Wall. “Not a chance!” Jon’s commands might inspire obedience in the brave men of the Night’s Watch, but they had no effect on his little sister. She trusted him, but in truth she was out of her depth. Her eyes, silver in the torchlight, flitted back and forth between her brother and her … she floundered suddenly. She had no idea how to finish the sentence. What exactly was Gendry to her? They’d never needed a name for it until now. Several words danced through her mind. Some sounded frightening, others downright ridiculous. _Friend_ , she settled on, well aware of how inadequate the word was.

He was standing his ground against Jon, but Arya still didn’t want to leave him. He was taller than Jon, and much broader, but Jon had training Gendry couldn’t match. She wanted to grab him by the hand and march from the room, and wait for Jon to come to his senses. But Gendry had that stubborn look on his face, and in the end she threw up her hands and walked out alone.

She didn’t go far. Thankfully, there were no guards posted outside Jon’s rooms, and she stopped there, leaning against the wall, feeling suddenly exhausted. Standing there, she could hear every word.

“How can you do this?” Jon’s voice was cold. “She says you love her!”

“I do,” Gendry replied, and she could hear the stubbornness in his voice. “I don’t think she knows how much.” Arya closed her eyes and bit her lip.

“It doesn’t look that way from where I stand. It looks like you want her to take the North by any means necessary. Perhaps you have ambitions of your own …”

Anger flared in Arya, and she fought the urge to rush back into the room and knock some sense into her brother. But Gendry was slower to anger.

“That’s not true. I’m just a blacksmith. For a while I thought I was a knight, but it was never really true. And Arya … she’s happier among the smallfolk. You must know that.” He stopped, as if choosing his next words carefully. “I asked her to run away. When we first got here, before that other girl arrived. There are places we could go where no-one would know or care who we are.”

Even Arya had rarely heard him speak so much at once. To his credit, Jon had listened without interrupting, and appeared to have calmed somewhat.

“Then what changed? Why support this crazy plan of hers? Why help her with it?”

There was a long pause before Gendry answered. “I told you. I love her.”

“That doesn’t make sense. I love her – I always have – and I just want to keep her _safe_. I want to kill anyone who threatens her! I want to make Ramsay Bolton sorry he ever uttered her name. I don’t understand why you don’t want the same thing!”

“Because I know her!” His voice rose for the first time. “She always chose her family, and she never forgot who she was. And she could never, ever walk away from a fight. She wants to do the right thing, and she’ll hate me if I try to stop her. So I’ll help her. I won’t leave her. I said I wouldn’t.”

Outside the door, Arya felt a little stunned. These two men – and they _were_ men, nobody could call either of them a boy any more – were fighting over nothing more than how best to protect her, and how much they loved her. She’d never asked for it; all she’d ever wanted was the strength to look after herself. Men swore oaths of love and vows of protection to _ladies_ ; her mind, as ever, went to Sansa. Their helplessness, as well as their beauty, inspired that devotion. Yet here she was, skinny and scruffy and fierce as ever, and it changed nothing. She composed herself, and walked back into the room.

“Gendry’s right,” she told Jon firmly. “I can’t walk away now. And I’ve earned a place in this fight.”

Jon’s shoulders sagged. “You’re really going to let him hand you over to Ramsay Bolton?”

“Yes. Because he was right about that, too. I can’t do it without him.” Not certain that it was the right thing to do, but not really caring, she linked her fingers with Gendry’s.

Eventually, her brother nodded. “I’ll make arrangements for you to leave. I’ll have the steward prepare some provisions for the journey. It’s the only help I can offer.” 

Before he left the room, he cast a glare at Gendry that was easy to read: _If you let anything happen to my little sister, I’ll kill you._

In response, Gendry pulled her closer to him. Arya’s eyes followed her brother. “Actually, Jon, there’s one more thing you can do. Get rid of the guards outside my room tonight.”

Jon shook his head in apparent disbelief, and left. 

~~~~~~~~~~

Through the evening, Arya turned the plan over and over in her mind. She knew how difficult this was going to be. She had held many names these last years, been many different people, but this was harder. Now she only had to be Arya … but a different Arya. Arya Stark of Winterfell, Lord Eddard’s daughter, who had grown up in the castle with her brothers and her sister, a young lady of a great house … but nothing of who she really was. Arya Stark would not have allowed herself to be handed over as a wife. Arya Stark would not have let the likes of Ramsay Bolton anywhere near her. This other Arya would need to be frightened but obedient, with no strength or will left. It would be the hardest part she ever played.

She told Jon as much over a shared jug of wine, late that night. “But you can do it?”  
She nodded, knowing that pretending was the one thing she could do perfectly. 

“And Gendry? Can he play his part?”

She considered this. In the time since they’d met, she’d been Arry, Weasel, Squab, Nan, Salty, Cat, Beth, and many more. He’d never been anything but Gendry. They’d called him The Bull but it had made no difference, he was still Gendry, solid and stubborn and honest. Could he play the mercenary outlaw, selling an honoured lord’s innocent young daughter to a known monster?

In the end, she trusted in his honesty. “If he says he can, he can.”

Jon looked like he was going to argue, then thought better of it. He swallowed the last of his wine, and spoke without looking at her. “I’ve given those guards other duties tonight. Don’t do anything stupid.”

She punched him, hard, on the arm.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Can you do it?”

She’d reassured Jon, but now she needed reassurance herself. Mostly, it came from her own doubt. She changed their places in her mind. Cersei had wanted Gendry dead. Could she, Arya, have handed him over, even if she’d known he intended to kill the mad queen?

“Yes.” The answer came quickly and simply.

“What if they hit me? What if he has his men beat me, before I can get anywhere near him? He won’t kill me, I’m worth too much, but he can hurt me. You must let him. Can you do that?”

“Arya …”

“Can you?”

“Yes, I can, because my only other choice is to send you with someone else, and I can’t do that. Now shut up, m’lady, and come to bed.”

Sighing, she lay down next to him. He stroked her hair softly; for a blacksmith, he had surprisingly gentle hands. “I don’t think I could do it,” she confessed. “If it were you instead.”

He laughed. “Then it’s a good job my father wasn’t a lord, then, isn’t it?”

She didn’t laugh. She lay and listened to his breathing, resting her head on his chest. It was the first time they had been alone like this since the ship to Eastwatch. She wanted to do more than just lay there, but she couldn’t. Tomorrow, they went to battle, and she had no leaves to brew. On the ship, reality had seemed so far away, but now it was lying heavy on her shoulders. She contented herself with what she had.


	9. Home ...?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She’d had different names along the way, but … they were lies. Good lies, but lies none the less. She had been Arya the whole time.

The journey south from the wall was over too quickly. With terrible timing, her moon’s blood came again, and by the time it passed Winterfell was almost in sight.

Saying goodbye to Jon had been hard. The Night’s Watch may have been sworn to take no part, but they still lined the yard of Castle Black to see the Lord Commander’s sister depart. He kissed her, formally, on each cheek, and she fought the urge to laugh, but her stifled giggles died in her throat when he embraced Gendry like a brother. She wasn’t close enough to hear what was whispered between them.

When they crested a hill and saw their first glimpse of Winterfell her heart stood still for a long moment. The blackened ruin was unrecognisable from her childhood home. Gendry must have known how she felt, because he brought his horse up close to hers. He didn’t speak.

In the silence, her mind started picking out the familiar walls and towers that still stood, and for a split second she was nine years old again, returning from a ride in the wolfswood. Unwanted tears rose in her eyes. To his credit, Gendry pretended not to see them.

A glance between them decided that it was time to begin the plan. They both dismounted, and together drove off Arya’s smaller horse, which would probably return to Castle Black. Gently, Gendry took a length of rope and began to wrap it around her hands.

“No,” she said sharply. “It begins now. Pretend they are watching. They might be watching; my father would have posted sentries out here. Do it like you mean it.”

He gritted his teeth and began again, holding both of her small hands in one of his larger ones, and wrapped the rope roughly around her wrists, binding it with a knot that was a little too tight. Arya then expected him to help her mount his horse, but instead he simply threw her over the saddle, before climbing up himself. She was about to protest – about to shout and curse and probably kick him – before she remembered her own advice. It had already begun. She forced herself to imagine it was all real. It was difficult; usually she used a name to create a different person, but now the only name she could summon was her own. It was the worst face she'd ever taken on: a scared, helpless version of herself.

It was awful, riding like this. She was terrified; she didn’t want to see Winterfell again, the place where she had once been happy, before everything went wrong. Everyone said Lord Bolton was a monster, and this outlaw was planning to sell her to him. She had tried pleading with him, but none of her entreaties had moved him. As they neared the castle, the horse slowed to a walk, but the pounding of her heart only quickened.

“I want to speak to Lord Bolton.” The outlaw’s voice was deep and unyielding.

“Oh, yes. And what do you have for him?” The guard’s voice was amused. She didn’t recognise it at all. Was that a good thing?

“His wife.”

The guard tugged at her hair until he could see her face. It was a face that might have shown fury at this rough treatment, but he only saw terror. “That’s not his wife.”

“No,” the outlaw argued solidly. “The other one wasn’t. She was a whore, paid by the Lannisters. This is Eddard Stark’s daughter.”

The guards were clearly unconvinced, but the outlaw wasn’t willing to give up on collecting the ransom. “Do you want your lord to know you let the true heir to Winterfell slip through your fingers?”

One of the guards disappeared, and when he returned, the outlaw was allowed to bring his horse into the courtyard. Once, this had been a busy, merry place. Now it was filthy and desolate. She swallowed hard. The outlaw dismounted, and lifted her from across the saddle. The guard pointed the way, and he started to walk, giving her a rough push in the back to get her moving. Without her hands to steady herself, she almost landed face first in the muddy snow.

At the top of the stairs, the guard rapped so gently on the door that it was clear he greatly feared the person behind it. She heard to command to enter, and didn’t want to, but another push between her shoulder blades gave her no choice. When she dared to lift her eyes, the man she saw had the strangest eyes and cruellest mouth she had ever seen, and she wanted to run, or cry, but she remembered her septa’s lessons, and curtseyed politely.

Lord Bolton nodded, and his guard left the room. The outlaw spoke first. “M’lord. Lady Arya Stark. The real one.”

He gazed at her, but she kept her eyes respectfully averted. “So. The woman I married was an impostor. I should’ve expected no less from the Lannisters. This one certainly has her father’s look. Tell me your name, girl.”

“Arya Stark, my lord,” she stuttered, fear of him making her speech clumsy, and she cursed herself.

“Where have you been?”

“I was a captive of the Brotherhood Without Banners, my lord. They wanted to ransom me to my uncle, Lord Tully, or to my aunt, Lady Arryn, until …” she let her voice trail off, and cast a frightened look at the outlaw.

“Tully’s a Lannister captive,” the outlaw said. “And Lysa Arryn’s dead. They didn’t know what to do with her, then I heard about your wedding, and knew you’d been duped. M’lord.”

“So you brought her to me,” he said softly, making her skin crawl. “You did the right thing. And what do you want in return?”

“A place in your household,” he answered, and the shock almost made Arya forget herself. _This wasn’t part of the plan. You were supposed to ask for money, like any good outlaw!_ She struggled for composure, keeping her eyes down, her face straight. _And then you were supposed to stay away from him! He needs me; he has no more use for you!_ She had been planning to use the ransom money to buy him his own warhammer, so he could fight at her side. She had been more impressed by his skill than she’d shown, back at the Inn.

“I won’t lie, I go where men are powerful. I want to be on the winning side. I’ve admired you for a long time.”

She didn’t even breathe. How was he doing this? She almost believed him herself.  
“Very well,” Lord Bolton answered eventually. “I assume you can fight. Find my captain of the guard, and have him assign you duties. But be warned, we are no outlaws. I expect obedience.”

“Yes, m’lord.” Without a glance at Arya, he disappeared.

Left alone with him, she was forced to meet his gaze. He was smaller than she’d expected, but no less terrifying.

“Did he touch you?” The question was asked without feeling.

“No, my lord. Not in that way.”

“Are you still maiden?”

She’d known this question was coming. She didn’t plan on letting him get close enough to find out, so the answer scarcely mattered. She gave him the truth. “No, my lord.”

“No, I suppose it would be impossible, living so long among outlaws. A pity.” He crossed the room and spoke quietly to a guard. A moment later an older woman – also an unknown face – appeared and led Arya away. She was bathed and scrubbed and dried, and her tangled hair brushed and braided in a grown woman’s style. Then a selection of gowns were laid before her, and she gasped. They had once belonged to her mother. For the second time that day, tears welled up in her eyes. She tried to force them away, then realised that the girl she was pretending to be would truly feel that way.

The woman seemed afraid to show her any kindness, but understood nonetheless. She chose a gown without asking Arya her opinion, slipped it over her head, and set about pinning it. Arya knew this would be a long job; even now, she was a lot smaller than her mother had been. When she eventually caught sight of herself in a looking glass, she half expected to see her mother, or Sansa. It was almost a relief to see her own sombre grey eyes, but they were the only familiar thing. A thought flitted across her mind. _This is what might have been, if things had stayed the same._

~~~~~~~~~~

She entered the hall at Ramsay’s side, and if anyone noticed that his wife had changed, they had the good sense not to comment, not even to each other. She ate as much as she could force down, and then sat quietly. Her eyes searched the room for the outlaw, but she didn’t see him.

When the meal was done, Lord Bolton stood and spoke. “We will, of course, have our vengeance on the Lannisters for sending me a common whore as a wife. But now the true Lady Arya is here, and I rule the north in truth.”

One of his men, possibly suffering from drinking too much wine, spoke up. “Will there be another wedding?”

Ramsay glared at him, and Arya doubted the man would survive the night. Of course, he might not be the only one. “I see no need. I married Arya Stark, and here she is. She needs not say the words again.” His eyes challenged anyone in the room to disagree with him. Draining his cup, he turned to a guard. “Take her to my room.”

Now it was happening. She let the guard lead her away, noticing that he too was in his cups. Suddenly, the outlaw was there. “You’re drunk. I’ll take her.” The guard offered no argument. The outlaw gripped her upper arm and steered her to the lord’s quarters. In the room, a fire was blazing. The outlaw turned back the sheets, tucking the edges under the mattress. He took his time, then left with nothing more than a glance in her direction. She perched on the edge of the bed, too frightened to move.

Ramsay entered the room almost silently. She heard the door close, and jumped to her feet. In that instant, the girl she had been pretending to be melted away, leaving only Arya. Arya, who’d been in the crowd when they killed her father. Arya, who’d been a captive at Harrenhal, so close to the butchery of the Lannister men. Arya, who would’ve been murdered at the Twins along with her mother and brother if the Hound hadn’t hit her so hard. Arya, who’d made her way to the Wall, and heard all the stories of what Ramsay Bolton had done to Jeyne Poole, thinking it was she he was hurting. In that moment, it didn’t matter that she was no longer pretending. The fear was real.

But … _fear cuts deeper than swords_. Yes. That Arya wasn’t helpless. She’d been taught the water dance by the first sword of Braavos. She’d been the ghost in Harrenhal, killing with a whisper. She’d saved her father’s men with weasel soup. She’d learned to change her face and voice and body, and learned how to kill without making a sound. She’d had different names along the way, but … they were lies. Good lies, but lies none the less. She had been Arya the whole time. She faced him determinedly, keeping her face still, showing nothing. This was the moment that always came during a battle with an opponent. The moment when all was won, or lost. She just needed him to come close enough …

She knew he had taken wicked delight in torturing Jeyne Poole on their wedding night, but he seemed largely disinterested in her. The brief flicker of interest he’d shown had gone when she told him she was no maiden. She understood now why she had told the truth. She’d known men like that in Harrenhal. She was depriving him of his sport.  
He looked her up and down. “You’re small. Your children will be small and weak. It doesn’t matter. I don’t need a strong son. A daughter would do. I just need a child, and soon.”

Her skin crawled. The idea of this man in her father’s seat was suddenly almost too much to bear. She controlled herself, hoping that he would misread her barely-concealed fury as terror. Before this night was out, she’d make her father proud.  
She expected him to come nearer then, but he kept his distance. She weighed in her mind whether she could beat him in a fight. Most likely she could, but there was too much at stake to gamble. She barely heard him order her to remove her clothes.

She swallowed hard. She wasn’t modest; Harrenhal and even the House of Black and White had left no room for that. But things had changed since then. She wasn’t a little girl any more. And yet, she had no choice. She began to unlace her mother’s gown, and slipped it off her shoulders.

Even the smallclothes had needed to be pinned, and she pricked herself more than once removing them. Ramsay pointed to the bed, and she sat, then lay, her skin crawling more than ever as he looked down at her impassively. 

Then he noticed the blood. His eyes darkened, and he looked interested once more. 

“You’re bleeding,” he said, his voice deeper than she’d heard before.

“Yes,” she whispered. “They had to pin the gown.”

He nodded thoughtfully, and stooped to gather her fallen gown from the floor. From the shoulders he pulled a long steel pin, and examined it carefully. Her blood ran cold; this man was pure evil, and in that moment she finally forgave Jeyne Poole. His eyes moved from the pin to her, looking over her body. She fought the urge to run.

He took a step towards her, then another. She measured the distance with her eyes. Another small step, then another … he leaned over her, the pin pointing at her throat.

It had all been happening so slowly, but now everything came so fast. Her hand darted under the mattress, where the sheets had been tucked in, and her hand closed around the hilt of a blade. Swift as a deer, she pulled the knife from its hiding place and slid it between his ribs. Her right hand, touching him for the first time, covered his mouth, smothering his shout. He tried to pull away from her, but already his strength was failing. With sudden horror she realised he was going to fall on top of her, and it took all of her strength to shove him away from her. He was losing consciousness, and she drew away, watching as a red stain spread across the sheets. Now, she was calm. This was familiar. She watched for another moment, waiting. Then she laid her fingers across his neck, feeling for a pulse that she knew wouldn’t be there. As she pulled the knife out, she realised something. That way of killing … she hadn’t learned it from Syrio Forel, or Jaqen H’ghar, or the kindly man, or Izembaro. The swift, neat slide of a blade between two ribs … that was the way the Hound had taught her to kill. It was an act of mercy.

She felt momentarily perplexed. Mercy? She had hated many people in her short life, but she’d never despised anyone like Ramsay Bolton. Why would she grant him mercy? He should have suffered – for hours, for days.

She was shaken from her thoughts by Gendry’s arrival into the room. He took in the scene silently: the dead man, the bloody knife, and Arya’s shivering form. She hadn’t even realised she was cold.

He crossed the room silently, pulling his cloak from his shoulders and wrapping it around her. She took the cloak, but she wouldn’t let him look after her. She took a handful of bedding and wiped the knife clean. She stood, gathering some of her clothing from the floor, and made her way over to the fire, sitting down on the hearth. She began to pull on the too-big smallclothes; it was only then that Gendry noticed she was bleeding. He pulled a rag from his pocket and held it to a scratch on her side. This time, she let him.

_“Valar morghulis,”_ she whispered eventually.

“What?”

_“Valar morghulis,”_ she said again. “All men must die. I always say it at the moment of death. I didn’t this time.”

“You’re not that person any more,” he told her, and she couldn’t argue. She was home.

~~~~~~~~~~

Home or not, she wasn’t safe yet. She and Jon had both been confident that Ramsay’s men would flee once he was dead, but at the moment she and Gendry were both still in danger. She dressed herself as best she could, and made her way to the tower where the ravens were kept. She led the way. Jon had been right; it was not the home she remembered. Several wooden staircases were gone, and it made their journey harder. Gendry stayed close to her, completely lost.

All of a sudden, she stopped outside a thin door. It was wooden, but new. The old one must have burned.

“Is this it?” Gendry whispered.

She shook her head sadly. “No. This was my room.”

Silently, he took her hand, and she allowed it. She didn’t want to open the door. There might be someone there … and besides, she didn’t really want to see. If she went in there, she would be swept back to those times … with Father, and Mother, and Robb, and Nymeria, and all the others. It would be as if they were here with her again. And when she had to leave, she would have to lose them all over again. She couldn’t do it. She took a step back, and pulled Gendry away from the door. They had more important things to do.

In those happy days, the tower they eventually reached had been full of squawking ravens. Her father had kept in close contact with his bannermen. Now, there were only two birds. It didn’t matter. One was all they needed. She tore a scrap of cloth from her sleeve, and tied it around the leg of the stronger looking bird. This was the signal she and Jon had agreed upon; any written words had been deemed too dangerous.

She felt a little sad as she let the bird go; it was flying to its death. Just beyond reach of Winterfell sentries, the remaining Stark bannermen. The bird would be shot down, and the men would ride. Arya simply needed to wait. She’d planned this many days ago, but she had thought she would be alone. She was glad that she wasn’t.

Quiet as a shadow, but with Gendry following somewhat less quietly after her, she crept back through the castle, and made her way down to the crypts. It was pitch dark down there, but she could still feel the cold stone eyes of her ancestors staring down at her. Then, as if by magic, a light appeared.

She spun on her heel; Gendry had produced a candle from nowhere. “I thought this might come in handy,” he said simply.

“How did you know?” 

“That you were planning on coming here? I didn’t. But everything’s better with a bit of light.” He took in her strange expression. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she answered shortly. She couldn’t say what she was thinking: _why did I ever think I would be better off alone?_

They made their way between the statues, looking for a good place to hide and wait. Something seemed strange to Arya, and it took her a while to notice. She stopped abruptly to examine the statue of one of the kings of winter. One of the Brandons, probably. 

“What’s the matter?” Gendry asked.

“He should have a sword,” Arya realised aloud. “They all had swords in their hands, or lying across their knees.” She moved to the next figure. “This one’s missing, too.”

“Bolton’s men took them,” Gendry reasoned. “If your smith was killed, they would’ve needed to get swords from somewhere.”

This seemed the most likely explanation, but something niggled at Arya. Most people who weren’t Starks avoided the crypts if possible. A glint of steel on a distant statue caught her eye. _Why would the Bolton men take some swords, and not others?_

She found a likely looking corner, and began to settle down. It was even darker here, but as her eyes adjusted, she noticed things. A rotten apple core here, a ripped blanket there. Her eyes flew open.

“Someone else was hiding here!”

“Who?” Gendry asked, but she couldn’t begin to imagine.

~~~~~~~~~~

It took a long time for their eyes to truly adjust.

“Who’s that?” Gendry asked suddenly.

“Which one?” Arya looked around.

“The woman.” 

Arya hadn’t realised which figure they had stopped beside. “That’s Lyanna. My father’s sister. My aunt. I never knew her.”

“She looks young.”

“She was,” Arya agreed. “Only sixteen or seventeen, I think. Didn’t you ever hear the tale?”

He shook his head. Arya was a little surprised. Sometimes it felt like the whole realm knew the story of her father’s headstrong sister.

“She was beautiful. My father and his brothers adored her. Sometimes my father said I was like her. She rode well, and she liked to break the rules.”

“She looks like you, a bit.”

Arya shuffled closer to him, leaning against his side. “Robert Baratheon was in love with her.”

“King Robert?”

She nodded. “They were betrothed. But then Prince Rhaegar abducted her during Robert’s Rebellion, and she died. My grandfather and my uncle Brandon died too, trying to rescue her, and my father became Lord of Winterfell. He rarely spoke of her. I think it still hurt.”

Gendry was quiet for a while. “She could have been queen, if she had married Robert.”

Arya wondered how different things might have been. No Cersei, no Joffrey, no need for her or Sansa to go to King’s Landing. No war, perhaps. Lyanna might have been a good queen, and Robert a better king.

There was no point thinking that way. She held Gendry a little tighter.

~~~~~~~~~~

It seemed like many long, tense hours before she heard the faint sound of drums and galloping hooves. Cautiously she crept up from under the ground. No-one noticed her. It was early morning, and the yard was filled with men and horses. Some of Ramsay’s men rushed out with swords, but were quickly cut down. The others soon laid down their weapons.

Two things attracted Arya’s notice. First, there were many more men than there had been at the Wall; they were still arriving, still pouring in. Second, one of the riders looked more than a little familiar.

Jon.

He was the first to notice her. Dismounting his horse, he ran to her and held her tight.

“What happened to taking no part?” she asked, her voice muffled into his cloak.

He made a motion as if to muss her hair, then thought better of it. People were watching. She was not his scrap of a little sister. She was their leader. Their liege. She caught a glimpse of one or two familiar faces, and summoned her most commanding voice. “Gather everyone in the hall.”

The nodded briefly, and slowly the yard emptied, until she, Jon and Gendry were the only ones remaining. Gendry came to stand beside her. After half a second’s pause, Jon smiled, and offered him his hand. Arya watched the handshake with relief, then turned to Jon urgently.

“Jon, some of the swords are missing from the crypts. And there’s food and stuff; someone else has been hiding there!”

His eyes narrowed. “I was going to wait until later to tell you … after you left, I went to question Theon.” His eyes narrowed. “Actually, I admit, I went to kill him. He told me something, but I didn’t know whether to believe him. He said that Bran and Rickon escaped with Hodor and some servant woman before he could catch them. The bodies he displayed belonged to two orphan boys.”

Blood roared in her ears. Bran and Rickon, alive? She felt her legs weaken, and reached for Gendry to steady herself. She’d become accustomed to bad news; it was good news she couldn’t cope with. She was a little ashamed of her joy – two children had died for nothing – but the faces of her two little brothers danced in front of her eyes.

“We have to find them!” She wanted to jump on a horse and ride out, in any direction, but Jon was shaking his head.

“I don’t want you to get carried away. They were alive when Winterfell burned, but that’s all. They’ve been out there all this time, and it’s winter. You know how simple-minded Hodor was, and with Bran’s legs …”

Arya refused to accept this, and her expression darkened. Jon spoke again hastily. 

“I’m going to send out men. Or rather, you are. That will be your right, as ruler of the north. But you need to _stay here!_ ”

She felt like she was being torn in two. “But if Bran’s alive, he’s the heir to Winterfell, not me!”

“And as far as anyone knows, he’s not. If you leave Winterfell, these men will leave as well. Only you can hold them all together.”

It was the last thing she wanted to hear, but … this was the duty she’d accepted. With an effort, she nodded. “Gather everyone in the hall,” she said, looking down at her clothes. Another distasteful task awaited. “I must make myself presentable.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It was a long job. Gendry helped as best he could, but he had less idea than she did. An hour later, she stood outside the door of the hall, wringing her hands with uncharacteristic nervousness. Gendry’s hands were on her shoulders.

“You can do this.”

“I don’t know if I can,” she said honestly. She’d lived among thieves and outlaws, killed without honour, and couldn’t even fall back on a lady’s courtesies. Then Jon stood and started speaking.

“I am a Snow, not a Stark,” he said steadily. “This is not my place. You all loved my father. All the trueborn sons of Eddard Stark are dead. His elder daughter is missing, believed a traitor, and married to the enemy. But Lord Stark had another child, and by the grace of the gods old and new she has returned to us. Arya Stark, the true heir to Winterfell!”

She swallowed hard, and Gendry gave her a gentle push. She walked into the hall and up on the dais as if in a dream. “Loyal friends and bannermen, you are most welcome in our home,” she said, words that she had been practicing in her mind for days, and was proud that her voice did not shake. There were other words she’d meant to say, but new ones came to her unbidden. “I am not my father, or my brother. But neither am I my mother. I will be fair and just, but first I will be strong. The north will rise again, and those who would harm us will feel our fury, as surely as I myself slew the Bastard of Bolton!”

A great shout went up. She smiled for the first time, hearing men bellow the name of Stark, and her own name … hers again, at last.

_fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Complete!
> 
> Thanks, everyone, for the kind notes and comments and kudos :) It meant the world!
> 
> The sequel is coming, probably starting tomorrow, but obviously it's quite different in content and tone. Fair warning and all.
> 
> Thanks again!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
